


Again

by i_guess_im_doing_this



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drunk Alistair, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Exes to Lovers, Exiled Alistair - Freeform, F/M, Headcanon, Mage Warden (Dragon Age), Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, past breakup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_guess_im_doing_this/pseuds/i_guess_im_doing_this
Summary: The Calling comes for the Wardens, all of them at once. Desperate to save the order, the First summons them to Weisshaupt. Among those traveling North is Alistair Theirin, rejoining his brethren at last after years of exile. The one who broke his heart and ruined his life a decade prior follows the same path, the two of them bound to collide again.I'd like to thank Bioware and EA for driving me to write this by not releasing DA4 in the next half-century or so. Thanks, Bioware!
Relationships: Alistair/Female Amell (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**9:41 Dragon**

The dreaded question came halfway through the evening, after a first course of soup, coarse bread, ale, and harmless banter about how dreadful travel in the Anderfels could be. Alistair knew it was bound to come up — the others had already exchanged tales of their adventures, for what else would fellow Grey Wardens sharing a meal even talk about? Still, he couldn't help a jolt of panic when it did.

"So." Hollis, the burly elf sitting across from him, leaned forward, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. "Where have you been, then?"

Alistair tried not to choke on his mouthful of broth. The true answer to that question was complicated, and while his dining companions had been forthcoming about their pasts, some things were better left unsaid. The answer he'd rehearsed in his head for the past few months would do nicely. No lies, just omissions. A great deal of them. He put on his best nonchalant face before answering.

"Where _haven't_ I been, you mean?" He added a long-suffering eye roll, eliciting a few chuckles. "I was stuck in the Free Marches for a few years, then Nevarra, Orlais, then back to Ferelden. I guess you can't keep a Fereldan away for too long. We end up missing our good ol' beige stews." A pointed glance towards their bowls of mysterious mush, more chuckles. "I stayed South of the Frostbacks, quite a few Darkspawn stragglers there. Got sick of freezing to death after a bit, then went up to the Hinterlands. Right before all hell broke loose between mages and templars, mind you, great timing on my end. Until… well."

The Wardens exchanged grim nods. This put a stop to the conversation, as he knew it would. For now, there would be no follow-up questions about where he was during the last Blight, why he stayed away from his homeland for so long, why no one had heard of him at all. _Good._ Having successfully spoiled the mood, Alistair sipped his tea while Hollis downed the last dregs of his tankard; Maynard and Hull simply frowned at their plates in silence.

Three months before, they all started hearing a sound, between whisper and song; a sound that signaled the end of their lives as Wardens. Members of the order spoke of it quietly, if ever, lest they brought bad luck upon themselves. The Calling. It was still there, at the back of their minds, as they enjoyed their last chance to rest before the final stretch to Weisshaupt.

Below the mezzanine where their table sat, more Grey Wardens streamed in the tavern for the night, all clad in faded blue and grey, all headed for the same destination.

Alistair could hear snippets of conversation between old friends over the slow ballad the minstrel played — rather poorly so, but no one paid her much attention. Hollis wiped his mouth with his sleeve before clearing his throat.

"Who else is up for another round?", he said. Maynard got up with a grin, pulling at Hull's arm as he answered. "We sure are. Alistair?"

Holding up his half-empty cup, Alistair shook his head. "I'm alright,'' he said, "though I wouldn't be mad if you brought back some more of that bread. The texture is… fascinating."

Maynard laughed. "Will do," he said as they headed for the stairs. Hull narrowed her eyes at him before they left. Perhaps she was suspicious of him — it was hard to tell, as she would glare at anything, anytime. He once saw sleeping with her eyes open, glaring at the night sky.

Now that he was alone, Alistair let himself slump into his chair, some tension leaving his shoulders. From his vantage point, he could see much of the crowd below him, a steady flow of silver and blue. After spending so many years outside the order, he wasn't sure he could still call himself a Warden. The past ten years — the past thirty years, really, had been… Well, a dwarf in Kirkwall once summed it up masterfully: "Your life is _weird_ , your majesty," he'd said after a beat, following a drunken, rambling rant by Alistair. And the dwarf had a point.

Thirty years ago, Alistair was an orphaned bastard, an inconvenience handed over to a young Arl with little experience with infants.

Twenty-three years ago, a wild child, covered in mud and dog fur, fending off invisible enemies with a wooden sword.

Nineteen years ago, a gangly boy dragged to the Chantry, fighting the tears in his eyes.

Ten years ago, one of the last Wardens in Ferelden, a would-be prince, a young man madly in love, a savior to some, a traitor to others.

Eight years ago, an exiled, broken-hearted nobody drinking his days away in one of Kirkwall's seediest ratholes.

Five years ago, a wanderer, roaming around Thedas, trying to find a new purpose.

Three years ago, an accidental hero, then a not-accidental husband in an Avvar village at the bottom of the Frostback mountains.

One year ago, a husband no longer, and a traveler once again.

Three months ago, a Warden marching towards his death.

 _Weird_ seemed an appropriate adjective.

+++++

The Calling came to him as he traveled around the Hinterlands, aimless but not unhappy, lending a hand to refugees as mages and templars fought in the hills. A farmer offered him his barn for the night, and it was there that he woke up in a cold sweat, his head pounding. The barn was empty and the night peaceful, yet whispers stirred at the back of his head. He realized at once what they meant. _Seems about right_ , he thought in a daze. His Calling had come early; most Wardens got between two and three decades, but sometimes the taint takes you quick. And Alistair was not a lucky man.

With the song low but unrelenting at the back of his mind, he rode to meet Teagan and say his goodbyes — Redcliffe was a mess, with more refugees pouring in by the day, but the Arl had always made time for him. He was the one who dragged him out of Kirkwall, which saved Alistair’s life, in hindsight. He deserved a proper farewell.

"Won't you at least try and seek Eamon out? He would want to see you. I'm sure he would." There was a tinge of desperation in Teagan's voice as they sat together in the castle's courtyard, on the stone bench under the old oak. The sun was setting and the keep was quiet, save for a few far-off voices and the rustling of the leaves.

"I don't think I should show my face in Denerim, to be honest. Wouldn't want her Majesty to be alarmed," Alistair said, forcing a smile. It pained him to see Teagan grieved, though the older man hid his feelings well. "Besides, Eamon has built a new life in the North. I wouldn't want to trouble him."

They remained quiet for a while after that. In the fading light, Alistair could see his friend's pensive face, pale against the grey walls of the keep. As much as he regretted causing pain to Teagan (Maker knew he had done enough of that), he was glad to see him, and Redcliffe, one last time. The place held many memories for him — not all of them unhappy.

+++++

The Frostbacks were close by, a week of travel at most. Alistair remembered an old entrance to the Deep Roads west of lake Calenhad; it was seldom used and crumbling down, but it would do. The opening took some effort to find, as a foot of snow had fallen and his memory of the place was spotty at best. Still, find it he did.

Alistair took one last long look at the mountains around him before crossing the threshold. The Frostbacks stood tall around him, their peaks shrouded in clouds, fresh snow blanketing the earth, and the beauty of his surroundings overtook him, comforting and heartbreaking all at once.

_So this is it, then._

Alistair blew out a breath, said a quick prayer, then stepped into the darkness.

He was heading down the makeshift stairs to meet his fate when he heard footsteps coming from below. He paused — he couldn't sense darkspawn nearby, but he still unsheathed his sword, standing ready. The footsteps crept closer, then a surly dwarf dressed in blue and silver emerged into the light of his torch, squinting at him. She was as wide as she was tall, covered in dust, and thoroughly annoyed.

“Alright, boy,'' she said, “I don’t know what you’re expecting to find down there, but it’s nothing but darkspawn, cave-ins and spider shit. No treasures, no glory. So you be a good lad and run along.”

Alistair was pretty sure she was the same age as him, if not younger. He shook his head. “I know what’s down there, ser. That’s exactly why I’m going — not the spider, huh, feces.” he added as her frown got deeper, “Not that. The darkspawn. I’ve been hearing the Calling, you see.” She stared at him in silence.

She wasn’t getting out of the way. He might have to climb over her to pass.

This was nowhere near as dignified as he had pictured.

“Sooooo…” He motioned her to scoot to the side.

“No.”

“No?”

With a huff, she took him by the arm and dragged him back up the stairs. She was _strong_. At the landing, she held up her torch to a wall, illuminating something Alistair had completely missed. In dark paint (he hoped it was paint), someone had scrawled “NOT CALLING DON'T GO” on the stone. It took a while to decipher. The penmanship was horrendous.

“Well. Shit.”

“I’ve been trying to find a group of Wardens who went down last week, to warn them,'' she said, “but no dice. Poor bastards are probably dead by now. Figured I might as well leave a note.” She looked him up and down, unimpressed. “You’re lucky your blind ass found me, kid.” Alistair couldn't argue with that, for once.

“I sure am, huh”, he said.

“My name's Hull. All wardens are supposed to head to Weisshaupt as soon as possible. We’ve all been hearing the damn thing.”

++++++

Hull never agreed to let him come with her. He just stuck around, and she had yet to tell him to scram. Alistair figured she found him useful, in that he was much more willing to talk to strangers, arrange passage or procure some food. She had no interest in social graces, or even basic politeness.

They met Maynard after crossing the Waking Sea, weeks later. A rangy, laid-back Free-Marcher in his mid-forties, he was an old companion of Hull and a Warden of some talent. The three of them had traveled together since, trekking North towards the Anderfels. Hollis had joined them right before they reached the last inn on the way to Weisshaupt, the Crossed Arrows, where they planned to stay the night. For those traveling to the Warden fortress, there were few resting options, as the Anderfels were about as populated as the bottom of the sea. The Crossed Arrows, though grimy, was the better option — little but red, dusty steppes for miles around it.

There he sat, alone for the first time in weeks, reflecting, when a voice broke his contemplation.

“I'm just telling it like it is!”

It came from a table on the lower level; he could see most of it from his seat. The voice belonged to a man who had his back to him: he had a Fereldan accent, copper hair, and the distinct air of an arrogant twit, even from behind. The Wardens facing him, a slight dwarf, a sharp-faced Dalish elf and a large bearded man, clearly shared that impression. The dwarf, her face tattoos branding her as casteless, was running out of patience, her fist clenched hard around her tankard.

The Fereldan kept ranting. “I've only been a Warden for a couple of years, sure, but considering all we’ve done — all _I_ ’ve done while you _Senior_ Wardens were fucking off Maker knows where, I say we need to rethink how seniority works, that’s all. And that’s not offensive, that’s just logical," he said, then gulped half of his drink, oblivious to the waves of hatred coming his way. Half the tavern was glaring at him by then. “Because while you were out there “investigating” or whatnot, we’ve been down in the Deep Roads actually doing your…”

Several things happened before he could finish his sentence.

The dwarf got up, slamming her drink on the table.

Something cold and wet touched Alistair’s hand.

And a figure in blue and grey stepped behind the redhead, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Time ground down to a halt as Alistair saw that the cold, wet thing was, in fact, a dog’s nose, which was attached to a Mabari named Finn, and realized that if Finn was here, his owner couldn’t be far. As if on cue, he heard her voice.

“A moment of your time, please.”

The man stumbled to his feet as Saoirse Amell, former circle mage, champion of Redcliffe, hero of Ferelden, Warden-Commander, and the woman Alistair had desperately tried to forget for the last ten years, stepped out of the room.

*******

Saoirse and the young Warden stood outside the inn, dry steppes stretching for miles around them.

Music filtered out of the windows: the minstrel had finally settled on a song, a pleasant ballad about a maiden and her pet nug. Saoirse stifled a smile, thinking of Schmooples, while the redhead grew more fidgety by the second. He looked soberer already.

She broke the silence, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “You’re… Randall, right? Stroud’s last recruit? I’ve heard a little about you.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. My father was —“

“Great, splendid: now, as a _senior_ Warden, I feel like there is something I should let you know. A lesson you might have missed. I debated letting Sigrun break every bone in your body, but we need to turn in early tonight,” Saoirse continued, keeping her tone neutral.

“Every bone?!” He scoffed. “I'd like to see her t—“

“I'm not finished.” She turned toward him at last, and he withered under her stare. Freckles peppered his face, his beard growing patchily around his jawline; his eyes shifted between her and the ground, like a little boy being scolded. _Maker, he’s so young._

She briefly considered that he was older than she had been during the Fifth Blight, then chased the thought away. “I'm not trying to lecture you. You’re not a child. There is something I need you to understand, however, if only for tonight.” She turned back to the steppes. The hour was getting late, but it was light still; the Anderfels appeared stuck at dusk, red sands melting with orange skies.

“I’m sure there’s a reason why you’re behaving like this — there’s always a reason. We all have reasons. But whatever they are, they do not matter”. He opened his mouth as if to interject, but thought better of it, crossing his arms. “When push comes to shove, the only ones by your side will be Wardens. We may not always agree with one another, but we all know this. Which is why we treat each other with a modicum of respect, always".

She paused as a gust of wind lifted a cloud of dust ahead of them, making it dance for a heartbeat. Randall stared at the ground.

"The minute you start thinking you’re better, or special or more important than anyone else, and choose to make it known — you break off this agreement. What that means, in practice, is that none of the Wardens who heard you being a boastful little prick in there would hesitate for two seconds before leaving you behind, when the time comes. And it will, trust me”. She shook her head. “In the short term, it also means that many of them are ready to punch your face in. You realize that, I suppose?”

He answered after a short silence. “Yeah. I do. I just… We spent so much time down in the Deep Roads, you know? Weeks and months and years… Then we get out and we see everyone else get… praise, and respect, and — and free drinks! It’s — there’s no fairness in this!”

“If any of this were fair, we’d all be getting parades everywhere we go. It isn’t.” Saoirse shrugged. “A correction, still: the ones you were harassing are my friends, and they have given more to the order than most. Not that they would be boasting to strangers about it.” His cheeks burned crimson. He had definitely sobered up. “So, some advice: if I were you, I’d get back in there and show some humility. You don’t have to apologize, but a round of drinks would buy you some goodwill.”

“I… guess. Yeah, I guess I could do that”

“Wonderful. Go on, then. Lovely to meet you, Randall.”

Still blushing, he went back inside the tavern. The minstrel had started a different song, lively and bright — something about a queen and her well-endowed jester, which had the audience hooting.

“Nice work”. A man walked towards her, his black mustache and raspy voice instantly recognizable. Stroud had stayed within earshot inside the inn, she guessed, looking after his own. She sighed, shaking her head. “Where do you keep finding these recruits? Viper pits? They’re all so _angry_."

He raised an eyebrow. “Randall's fine. Damn good fighter.”

“You know that’s not enough.” Saoirse shifted her posture, her brow furrowing. “I thought you’d learned your lesson with Carver. We have enough trouble with these types.” As if on cue, a crash echoed from the main room, followed by raucous laughter. Stroud grunted. “Carver is a good soldier. He grew out of it.” He paused, observing her. “Leg's still bothering you?”

She blinked at him. _As astute as ever._ “Too much travel on horseback, I'm afraid. It’s perfectly fine if I get to move around. But thank you, Stroud. I appreciate your concern.”

“Don’t mention it. Last thing you need right now is another distraction.” Stroud took a wooden pipe out of his coat pocket and started to pack it. "You’ll need your wits about you for what’s coming, I’d wager”.

“You would be right,'' she said, summoning a small flame for him. “Will you be joining us on the road to Weisshaupt? With those walking slabs of meat of yours?”

Stroud chuckled, lighting his tobacco with the burning wisp. “Not right away. We’ve heard of some type of Varghests harassing travelers to the West. We’ll take a quick detour to try and see what can be done.” He took a few puffs. “I'd ask if you wanted to join, but…”.

“The First Warden is expecting us. But do send for us if there’s too much trouble. We’ll come.”

“You know I won’t,'' he laughed. “Still have my pride. I’ll be heading back, then — some nannying to do”. He bowed his head slightly. “See you in Weisshaupt.”

Saoirse nodded, gazing at the sky. The moons looked enormous that night. Fereldans would call this a bad sign, Orlesians an auspicious one. She had no idea which perspective the Anders favored. She stretched a little, wincing as pain shot up from her right thigh.

Things were about to change. A clear omen would have been nice.

++++++

He couldn’t look away. Alistair had found a window above her and the other Warden as they stood outside, and he had been sitting there, out of sight, unable to move. Part of it was Finn's fault, as the dog had half-climbed on his lap and weighed as much as a small horse. Part of it was his body refusing to do anything. Finn was licking every inch of him he could find, his tail wagging, blissfully unaware.

Even in the distance, and though her face was partially obscured by her cowl, he would have known her anywhere. Same posture, same voice. As composed as ever. As beautiful as he remembered. A brief flash of the last time they met, her pale face in the cold light of the Royal Palace. The image knocked the air out of his lungs. _Get a grip, Alistair,_ he furiously thought.

Alistair had imagined what he would do if he saw her again many, many times, especially in the first few years of his exile. Nursing an ale in Kirkwall, alone and miserable, he built entire scenarios in his mind. Sometimes he pictured himself letting his anger explode, screaming in her face. Sometimes he shamed her with quiet dignity. More often than that, he coldly, methodically spelled out how she had ruined his life. All the ways she broke his heart — broke _him._

Now she was eighty feet away from him and he couldn’t face her.

He wasn't a fool. He knew all Wardens were to report to Weisshaupt, including her. They were bound by fate to meet again. Yet he had shut away that thought, buried it as deep as possible. He figured he'd know what to do when the time came.

He didn't, in fact, know what to do.

He closed his eyes. After a moment, the tavern door opened and shut with a creak — she had gone back in. Alistair blew out a breath.

Damn her. Damn him. Damn it all.

Finn kept pawing at him, oblivious to his distress. Maker, how he had missed that dog. He held the mabari’s big head between his hands, his thumbs stroking his fur — it had gone a bit grey, new scars dotting his coat, but his eyes were still bright.

“Finn. Listen to me.” He whispered. "She can't know I’m here, alright? She can’t. It’s a secret.”

Finn whined; Alistair could tell he understood, somehow. _That dog has always been smarter than most people_ , he thought. “Go back to her. I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

Confused, Finn stepped away from him with a low whine. He gave Alistair one last look before padding towards the stairs, towards his mistress.

Alistair sighed. Part of him yearned to run towards the bar. He wouldn’t, but at that moment, the need was as nagging as the Calling. What he _had_ to do was to find his companions, convince them to join Stroud’s expedition to the West, and slip away from the inn as soon as he could, one Warden amongst many.

He would have to face her, he knew that. Just not quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added references for 9:41 Alistair:  
> https://kissingagrumpygiant.tumblr.com/post/186284886263/spare-king-alistair-maam-spare-ki  
> https://pheberoni.tumblr.com/post/168473300804/my-muffin


	2. Chapter 2

**9:30 Dragon**

“You have five minutes, mage. Any more and I’ll drag you to the door myself.” The templar spat out the words at her. Errol (or was it Harold? She could never remember) loomed over her in her quarters, sneering as she packed her things.

Saoirse barely heard him, focused on her task. There was little she owned. Smallclothes, a few shifts to sleep in, Circle robes – wouldn’t they stand out, outside the tower? Would she have to buy normal clothes instead? What did normal people even wear? _Did Grey Wardens provide uniforms?_

She took a deep breath and surveyed the contents of her pack. A pair of soft boots, a purse belt, a comb, a pouch of medicine, a scarf, a cloak, a journal, quills and ink, her spellbook. Practical choices. Only four items were not so.

The first was a pair of gloves. Embroidered and colorful, they did not suit her, or even fit her anymore. Her fingers grew so long over the years that she'd had to cut off the sheaths’ ends. Mina had left them on Saoirse’s pillow the night she vanished. The templars refused to say what had happened to her, but everyone noticed that a young recruit went missing at the same time.

Mina, always the blabbermouth, never spoke a word of her escape plans. “I’m the smartest one here,'' she'd always say with a smile. So she was. Saoirse never heard from her again.

The second was a pendant, fashioned from a piece of crystal she found in the lake, back when mages were permitted to exercise outside. She hadn’t swum far, but she held her breath so long underwater that the templars started to panic. She’d done so on purpose, giddy with disobedience — a reminder of the child she used to be. Outdoor activities were canceled soon after, but she always kept the rough, cloudy stone close as proof of her single act of rebellion. _Well, I’ve outdone myself now_ , she thought.

The third, a painted skyball gifted to her by Gilas for her sixteenth nameday. He made it by hand, star by star, and she treasured it, even more so after he was sent away, soon after his Harrowing. The Jainen Circle could better accommodate his new "condition", according to Graegoir.

Saoirse picked up a small book with a blue cover, remembered that Jowan gave it to her, put it back down, her hands shaking with anger. _Fucking Jowan._ A decade-old memory burst into her mind, his botched spell setting curtains on fire, him weeping with fear. “ _Please_ help me, Saoirse!”. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away. Jowan had been her first friend in the tower, before Mina, before Gilas. Now she was the last to leave.

The last item was a pile of letters, the paper yellow and thin from being held so often.

This was it. The sum of her life fitting in a single bag, with room to spare; even without the enchantment that let it hold more than it should, her satchel would have sagged pathetically. She would waste no time dwelling on it. Duncan was waiting for her, and she would not come to him unprepared; being a burden to him was out of the question.

She turned to Errol-Harold. “I need a few minutes in the library,” she said. He mumbled something and backed into the hallway. His hand was clutching the hilt of his sword, his brow slightly damp. _He’s afraid of me_ , she realized, befuddled. They walked together to the library, him a few feet behind, her holding back a nervous giggle. Mere hours earlier, she'd been Irving's prize pupil, irreproachable, hand-picked for her manners to escort diplomats around the tower, and completing the “cleanest, quickest Harrowing in years" — everything going according to her plans. Now she faced a choice between joining the Grey Wardens, imprisonment or tranquility, and appeared to be scaring the wits out of a templar. _This is absurd._

The library was silent, all mages and apprentices still gathered in the dining room for supper. Saoirse went from shelf to shelf, grabbing whatever could be useful — Botanics for the road, an encyclopedia of protective runes, a bestiary of Ferelden — with maybe-Errol glaring at her from a corner. She was searching for "On the nature of the Blight" when a voice made her start.

“What are you doing here? Library hours are over.” A Tranquil stood in the doorway, his unblinking gaze fixed on her.

“Owain! Sorry. Good evening — I’m sorry," she stammered. “I was just… getting a few books for the road. I’m leaving,”

“Leaving. I see. Did you fill in a request form?”

“I didn’t. I’m… requisitioning them. For the Grey Wardens. As a Grey Warden.” Her head was spinning. As a Grey Warden. _Absurd!_

Owain stared at her, then nodded. “I see. Please bring them back at your earliest convenience. Do you require assistance?”

“I don’t”. Her voice wavered. She seldom cried, but Owain’s calm, even tone reminded her of the last time she spoke to Gilas. Of everything that was lost. She bit her bottom lip. “Thank you, Owain. Farewell."

She met Duncan at the great door moments later. Irving stood there alongside Greagoir and half a dozen templars, all watching her every move, their expressions varying from disappointment, to boredom, to open contempt.

She pulled her shoulders back, eyes forward. They would not see her weak.

“Are you ready?” Duncan asked.

“Yes.”

She was not ready.

++++++

"Should I have asked her to write a note?"

Sassing a man who could blow his head off with a fireball was not a great idea — that was common sense, whether one was a templar or not. But Maker, it felt good. Alistair had spent interminable days in Ostagar standing around like an armored beanstalk, listening to important people give important orders, or delivering messages between said important people even when both parties stood mere feet apart. He was allowed some levity, surely.

Plus, he had an audience.

A woman had stepped within the ruined temple seconds before. She was tall, with fair skin and dark hair, a green cloak shielding her from the autumn chill; Alistair kept glancing towards her as the mage rambled on. Not because of her beauty — well, not just because of that, although hers was apparent even from a distance. Something about her piqued his curiosity, a welcome change after weeks of monotony. _Interesting._

“Out of my way, fool!” the mage spat. Fine by him. With his message now delivered, he could get a proper look at the stranger. An innocent look, of course. He wasn't there to ogle.

She looked young, up close, her cheeks flushed. Downturned grey eyes and straight brows gave her a solemn air, and braids circled her head in an elaborate coil, not a strand out of place. She watched the other man as he walked away, her posture rigid but impeccable, then their eyes met at last.

 _Definitely interesting._ A smile tugged at his lips as he approached her.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

 _Great delivery_ , he thought. She stared at him, eyebrows knitting. _Or maybe not_.

Was it confusion he could read on her face? Panic? Or worse?

“I’m sorry, what?” She said.

Awful delivery, then. “Oh, nothing. Just trying to find a bright side to all this." Silence. This wasn't going well. "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

Her expression relaxed at the question, oddly enough. Or perhaps Alistair was as bad at reading women as he feared. "I left my staff with the quartermaster; he's crafting a new harness for it. But I am, indeed, a mage." Parting her coat, she revealed the yellow robes worn in the Calenhad circle.

"Really? You don't look like a mage. Uh… that is…" This was awkward, even by his standards. "I mean… how interesting." Duncan's last, brief message sprang into his mind. _Third and last recruit, Circle mage, woman, capable_. This had to be her, for who else would bother seeking him out? "Wait. I do know who you are. You're Duncan's newest recruit, from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognized you right away, I apologize."

"That's alright. No offense taken. My name is Saoirse," she said, the shadow of an accent in her voice. And though he managed to put his foot into his mouth several times, the rest of their conversation went smoothly. He noticed a hint of a frown when he mentioned his templar training, gone so fast he might have imagined it. Her eyebrows raised when he remarked upon her gender, but that was a normal reaction to him being a blundering idiot — a common occurrence.

Alistair made a mental note to avoid looking at her so much in the future. If he wasn't going to observe, say, Jory, so attentively, he should treat her the same.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try not to embarrass you,” he said as they set off to find the other recruits. Saoirse smiled a little at that, her first smile since they met, and contentment bloomed within his chest.

This was going to be difficult.

******

The gates separating the camp from the wilderness stood tall in front of Saoirse. After checking her pack and running a mental list of their group's tasks (getting darkspawn blood, finding old treaties, picking a particular healing flower — all in a day's work, apparently), she stole another glance at Alistair. Discretion was paramount. Her behavior needed to be faultless, lest Duncan changed his mind and sent her back. Gawking at a boy would make for a poor impression, and whether she found him handsome or not was beside the point.

Alistair cracked a joke as he attached the last buckle on Daveth's quiver, grinning at the other wardens. And just like the first time she'd seen his face, a question nagged at her.

_Where have I seen him before?_

In the temple ruins, that feeling of recognition had struck like a blow, destroying her composure for a bit. He said they hadn't met before; though he trained as a templar, he never set foot in Lake Calenhad's Tower. Mina used to tease her for her forgetfulness: many of the Circle's templars were never committed to her memory. And yet, standing in the morning light, he looked _so_ familiar.

Saoirse listened to him speak, trying to find any hint of an accent. Her own had faded over the years, but she could recognize the lilt and diction of Northwestern Islanders anywhere. No such luck. She only ever knew her island and the Circle, and they couldn't have met in either place.

Holding back a frustrated sigh, and somewhat dismayed at the smallness of her world, she busied herself with her staff's harness. She didn't know him. Her mind was playing tricks on her _again._ She decided that he seemed familiar because he resembled King Cailan, whom she had met moments before. They had similar noses.

Jory, Daveth, and Alistair looked at her expectantly. "Shall we depart, my lady?" Jory asked.

 _My lady._ She stifled a grimace. The man kept addressing her that way, and had offered to carry her pack several times, his brand of gallant courtesy both unwelcome and unfamiliar. Saoirse took a deep breath.

"Again, _please_ call me Saoirse," she said, her tone neutral. Seeing Jory's sheepish expression, Daveth smirked at her, trying to elicit a reaction. She would give him none. They had work to do. "Let's go."

She signaled the guard posted at the gate. It opened with a loud creak, a sea of green behind it.

"Good luck out there," the guard grumbled as the four of them entered the Korcari Wilds.

Irritation made way to excitement as the forest surrounded them. Electricity coursed through her veins — their mission was dangerous, she knew, but being outside unsupervised, free to use her magic, still tasted like freedom. A smile played on her lips.

Blood, treaties, flower. All in a day's work.

******

The beacon burned bright, illuminating the room around them. Alistair bolted to the window while Saoirse stood frozen in place, staring at the humongous corpse in front of her. The ogre's teeth glinted in the light as its blood seeped into the floor, the sour smell of iron and corruption filling her nostrils. Even in death, the creature radiated malevolence. _How could such a thing exist out of a nightmare?_

At the corner of her eye, one of the soldiers who fought alongside them in the tower of Ishal knelt by his companion, his face hollow. The other soldier, the archer — she didn't know his name — laid near the stairs, his body bent unnaturally. The ogre had struck him so hard that his body went flying across the room, landing with a sickening sound. Saoirse couldn't afford to worry about his fate then, flinging spell after spell at the creature, unleashing ice and horrors and stone until her magic drained down to its last dregs.

Dully, she tried to reach for a lyrium potion, then remembered that she had none left. Not that it would have mattered. It would take an experienced healer to revive this man, and she was far from that.

None of the stories about hard-fought battles mentioned these aftermaths, where men died slow deaths in foreign places, their friends looking on helplessly. Saoirse ran her hands over her face, feeling her fingers tremble. She had seen so much death in a single day. And the day was not over yet.

"Saoirse!" Alistair called her to the window, panic audible in his voice. She hurried to his side, her boots skidding on the bloody floor.

Below the tower, dim fires lit the battlefield; Saoirse had to strain to see anything, her eyes widening as the scene became clearer. Men and women running, falling, outnumbered ten to one. This wasn't a battle any longer. It was a massacre. "Where are Loghain's soldiers?" she asked.

"I don't know — they were supposed to charge as soon as we lit the beacon! I can't — " he stopped abruptly. Following his gaze to the hills in the east, she saw it too: a sea of torches moving in the night, away from Ostagar. Away from them.

Silence filled the room. Too stunned to move or even blink, Saoirse and Alistair stared down at the battlefield, then at each other. "We… We need to go. We need to help them," he stammered, ashen-faced.

"Help them _how?_ There are only three of us! I'm out of magic! What are we — " she gestured at their bruised, exhausted selves " — supposed to do against a horde of darkspawn?" Her voice broke. Gently, he put his hand on her arm.

"We have to help them, Saoirse." She stared at him, her heart hammering rabbit-fast in her ears. He looked as desperate as she felt. _"Please."_

 _I don't want to die._ Her answer withered in her throat.

A gasp echoed from the other side of the room.

Something struck Saoirse once, then twice, and she couldn't draw her next breath. Her eyes slid from the darkspawn emerging from the stairs to Alistair's horrified face to the two arrow-shafts embedded in her torso. Then she saw nothing at all.

++++++

The first time Alistair took the twisting path through the woods, he was surrounded by three warden recruits, following a sullen witch back to Ostagar. The mood was high — they had accomplished their mission, ready to take their Joining at last, and Daveth was regaling them with some choice anecdotes from his days as a pickpocket. _What an interesting bunch of recruits_ , he thought, watching them traipse through the forest. Jory had proven reliable but careful — _cowardly_ was a meaner way of putting it —, Daveth efficient and surprisingly selfless. And Saoirse...

By then, they all deferred to her as if it were the natural order of things. Duncan had a keen eye. This one was steadfast, brave, and capable. Patient, too: he'd seen her stay well-mannered in her dealings with three idiots who marveled at her womanness (him included), a priestess who called her heathen for declining a blessing, and not one but two insane witches in the forest.

She was also frustratingly hard to read. Even now, she didn't raise an eyebrow at Daveth's antics, her serious-if-pleasant mask staying in place. Alistair had seen it slip only twice: during their first introduction, and at the kennels, back in the camp. When she approached the sick mabari to muzzle him, she hesitated, unsure and awkward. "I don't want to hurt him," she told the kennel master.

"I don't think you could," was his answer. "Either way, dogs will let you know if they're hurting. You'll do fine."

She shot a nervous glance towards Alistair, who gave her a nod of encouragement. Saoirse knelt in front of the wounded animal, her hands delicate on his fur, and she had looked so soft then, her face open as a child's.

That look had not left his mind since. Alistair's curiosity always overpowered his will, and his eyes kept wandering in her direction. They did so once more as she walked under the trees, but this time she was looking right back at him. "I have a question, if you don't mind," she said.

He did his best not to look flustered. "Of course."

"After the Joining, once I'm officially a Warden, could I…" She paused, measuring her words. "I mean, after the battle, after the horde is beaten back. Could I go anywhere I wanted, or are there limitations for such things?"

Alistair thought for a second. "Well, acolytes must go wherever their commander tells them to go."

She looked away. "Right. Of course," she said quietly.

"But, if you were to request it, your commander might allow you to travel — well, anywhere," he added in a rush. "If this isn't a true Blight, Wardens could be needed all over, so it isn't out of the question." A pause as they crouched under a large branch. "Why, where would you like to go?"

A smile spread across her face, warm and unexpected. "I think I'd like to —" They both turned around as Jory called them; Daveth had stuck his foot in a mess of roots, and it took a few hands to free him.

"I did that on purpose," Daveth panted, "to teach you all how to work together. Don't thank me, please," he added, rubbing his ankle. "Just doing the Maker's work."

Alistair took the rear for the rest of the trek, a silent prayer on his mind. _Maker, let them live through the Joining._ The order could use them. And he could use the company.

The second time he followed this path, Daveth was dead, Jory was dead, Saoirse was dying in his arms and a different witch led the way. Flemeth kept a punishing pace ahead of him, a small globe of light held between her fingers. "Not much longer," she said, and he didn't know if she talked about the distance to her hut or the length of Saoirse's life. He couldn't speak, nothing left in his mind but panic. _She can't die. Not her too._ His arms strained under her weight; she barely moved, pale as a ghost, her eyes fluttering open and shut. Incoherent mumbles escaped her lips, quieter each time.

They pushed on into the Wilds, the horde far behind. After Flemeth's rescue — the details of which were blurry to him, a wash of noise and fire — they had slipped away from Ostagar through the dark forest, unseen by darkspawn. Whether their blindness was caused by the witch or by their hunger as they descended towards the battlefield, Alistair couldn't say. He didn't want to know. As the night sky paled over the canopy, Saoirse stopped stirring, her small, hissing breaths gone erratic. He tightened his grip and felt his own hands slick with her blood. _No._

At last, Flemeth's hut came into view — had they been running for minutes, for hours? Flemeth burst in the door and he followed her in, startling the younger witch who sat by the fireplace.

"Mother? What have you — "

"Set her down here," Flemeth pointed to a small bed, ignoring her daughter. He set Saoirse down gingerly, cradling her head. In the dark, he hadn't seen that her yellow robes had turned crimson, his own armor stained with her blood from his breastplate to his gloves. Her skin looked paler even than the bedsheets she laid on. Hollowness spread within his chest.

A flash of metal in Morrigan's hand. Unthinking, he stepped between her and the bed, blocking the way. "What are you doing?" he blanched.

"You _foolish_ — do you think we have time for this?" she scoffed, and gestured towards Saoirse. "Do you think _she_ does?"

"We need to cut her robes off of her," Flemeth said somewhere behind him. "Or her wounds will fester after we take out the arrows. Enchanted fabric doesn't cut easy." He spun towards her. In the dim light of the hut, her wrinkles creased deeper, something unnatural and ancient about her. She looked him up and down. "Go clean yourself off outside, boy. You're useless here."

"No, I won't..."

"Leave her with us?" Flemeth cackled. "So, I would have saved you then just to kill her now?" A disdainful chuckle, then she took the sharp blade from Morrigan's hands, brought its edge to Saoirse's collar and started cutting. Alistair blinked and turned away — she wouldn't have liked to be seen like this, though worrying about modesty felt absurd after what they'd been through.

Weariness took over his body; he stayed rooted to the ground until Morrigan elbowed him on her way to fetch boiling water, shaking him out of his stupor. His heart started racing. _Duncan._

"I need to go back."

"Hold her up," Flemeth told Morrigan. "Go back? The battle is over. There's nothing for you there."

"There could be survivors," he said, shaking his head. "I have to help them — I _have_ to." He started dragging himself towards the door, muscles screaming with exertion.

"And what would you do there, one man against a horde? Don't be a fool, boy. Darkspawn don't leave survivors." A whimper and a noise like skin bursting — they were taking the arrowheads out of Saoirse. "If she doesn't make it, you'll be the last warden in Ferelden. I doubt running at death headfirst is part of your oath."

Tears welled up in his eyes as his hand reached for the doorknob. She was right.

"Now get out. Healing is ugly business."

Dawn rose as Alistair walked out of the hut, sat down in the grass, and wept quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

**9:30 Dragon**

"Where would you like to go?"

She would have liked to see the Frostback mountains, their snowy peaks visible from the top of Kinloch Hold, and Cloudcap Lake at their feet.  
She used to daydream about the splendors of Val Royaux, Nevarra's statues and its great Necropolis, Seleny's bridges in Antiva and Llomerryn's bazaar in Rivain.  
She always wondered if Highever lived up to Mina's fond recollections, and Denerim to Gilas'.

Yet when Alistair asked her the question that afternoon, only one place sprung into her mind: a small island in the Waking sea, with steep, rocky cliffs and low clouds. She pictured herself walking through her village, towards her parents' house, their door open to her, her brothers and sisters huddled around the dining table.

She thought she'd made her peace with never seeing them again, back at the Circle. She really did. But he said she could travel "anywhere" and her heart swelled with hope. Perhaps forgiveness was possible. Perhaps they could have a fresh start.

As she laid dying on the floor of the Tower of Ishal, Saoirse was reminded of the futility of _hoping_ for things. It clearly hadn't worked for her.

 _At least it doesn't hurt that much_. A cocoon of darkness surrounded her, and she felt hints of pain, but shock was sparing her the worst if it. The only sound breaking the silence was her slow, slow heartbeat.

A figure crept into her field of vision.

"Well, that's just such a waste of potential, isn't it? Breaks one's heart to see it."

 _Mouse._ The demon leaned over her in his human disguise, the same he wore during her Harrowing, fake pity plastered over his features.

"You silly, silly child. To think you were so determined, so full of principles when we first met. You really wanted to do well, to be worth _something,_ didn't you?" He snickered. "And now look at you. Bleeding out on the floor like an animal, far away from everyone you've ever known."

Mouse grinned.

"And the saddest thing, really, is that no one is going to know or care that you're gone. Not a soul. The wardens tossed you into battle, the mages kicked you out, your friends left you behind, and your family — " he winced, but his smile stayed in place — "considering what they did to you, I doubt they'd shed a tear. Used and discarded, as always. Poor girl."

 _Fuck off_ , she wanted to say. _Let me die in peace_. But she had no voice.

"See, if you had accepted my offer, you could have turned all your enemies to dust in a second. You could have won the battle for the Wardens. You could have finally been useful for something. But alas," he sighed. "What a waste."  
Inhuman eyes glinted in the dark. "It's not too late, you know. I could help you now. You just need to let me in." He crept closer.

Let me in, Saoirse.

Let me in.

_Leave me —_

A jolt of pain woke her. As the fog lifted from her vision, she saw her feet dragging on the stone floor, limp as a doll's. Strong arms encircled her chest, pulling, and she heard a grunt of effort.

_… Alistair?_

Raising her head as much as she could, she saw his face above hers, his eyes frantically scanning the room. A fresh wound marred his forehead.

"What are y— " Her throat closed as blood filled her mouth. Alistair looked down as she coughed, alarmed and relieved at once to find her awake.

"Easy, easy — you're okay. They're dead. Just… just hold on," he said, his voice low.

Alistair dragged her along until they reached cover behind a toppled column. Gingerly, he tried to fit her body between the broken stones so she could sit upright. Her hands reached for her stomach, palms staining red; the arrows dug deep into her, and she could feel their bite with every ragged breath. Magic flared at her fingertips, briefly, then vanished. _It’s over_. There was no saving her.

"Just don't move — you'll be fine, I promise," he said, his forehead creasing. "Listen. I can feel more of them coming from below, so you need to hold on until I'm done with them, alright?"

Saoirse shot him a bewildered look.

_This is futile._

_I'm beyond help._

His head shot up in alarm at a distant noise. "They're getting closer." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Stay with me. We'll get through this."

Mouse's words echoed in her head.

_I'm not worth giving up your life._

_Save yourself and leave._

Desperate, she raised a hand — she was so, so weak — and grabbed his wrist. Amber eyes snapped back to hers, confused.

"What is it?"

Saoirse looked down at her wounds, then back at him, and slowly shook her head. She mouthed the words she couldn't speak.

_Just leave._

Comprehension dawned on his face at last, and Alistair clenched his jaw, his grip on her shoulder tightening.

"I'm not going to —"

A growl, closer this time. The darkspawn had found them.

"Here they come," Alistair whispered as he raised his shield.

_Just leave._

Everything went dark around her, like night falling. Saoirse closed her eyes and didn't open them again.

******

She was falling through dreams, so fast she could only see flashes of shapes and colors, and there was no sound but the rushing of the wind in her ears.

_Is this the Fade?_

It didn't feel like the Fade. As a mage, the Fade was familiar, if not predictable. The Circle's discipline allowed her control over her dreams, even letting her block the nightmares that plagued her childhood. But here Saoirse plummeted like a boulder, unable to do anything but brace for an impact that never came.

She squeezed her eyes shut, straining to focus. _Enough._ "Enough!" She cried out in frustration.

Her fall stopped abruptly, and whiplash sent her tumbling in mid-air. For a long moment, she struggled to stand upwards, dangling in the void — there was nothing around her but dull greyness, stretching infinitely in silence. A panicked whimper escaped her lips.

 _Focus, you useless twit_ , she berated herself. Saoirse stilled and breathed in and out, slow and deliberate, until her nerves settled. It took a while.

If this was indeed the Fade (and it had to be), up or down didn't mean anything. "The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real," Irving had said during her Harrowing. Her feet were touching the ground, she decided, and suddenly they did, her weight dropping to her ankles at once.

A short wobble, then she was standing straight, stiffening as her mind cleared at last. If this had been a dream, her body would have startled awake by now.  
But she had no body to return to.

_Oh._

Looking down, she saw no traces of the wounds she bore before her death, her yellow robes pristine _._ That was a small blessing, at least -- She felt no pain at all. She only felt empty.  
None of this felt like the peace promised by the Chantry. Another lie from the revered Mothers, she thought, though vindication didn't help her much.

Saoirse remembered Alistair's face, wrung-out but determined in her last moments. He should have left. She would have forgiven him. Sometimes hard choices had to be made, and you had to leave a comrade in arms to die, or escape without your friend, or send your child away forever. Understandable. Logical. She understood that. _Why didn't he leave?_

She let out a small, shaky sob and wiped tears from her eyes with her sleeve, allowing herself only a moment to be miserable. _There's no point in being sad about the things you can't change_. Death was as unchangeable is it got. Saoirse exhaled loudly, then examined her surroundings again. Grey, grey, more grey. Nothing else.  
At a loss, she did the only thing she could think of: she picked a direction and started walking.

Death was, so far, a rather dull affair.

After an hour, or a week, or a year — time meant very little here — Saoirse stopped, her ears perking up at a faint sound, like a far-off melody. Relief flooded her as she broke into a jog, then a sprint, altering her course as the music grew fainter or louder. Hopefully there was more to death than this dreary void.

She was getting close, song and lute and the sound of a crowd clearer with every step, when the ground fell from under her feet and she stumbled forward.

When she caught herself, she was standing in a large room with high ceilings, light shining down through elaborate stained glass windows. People of all kin walked around her, some wearing unfamiliar uniforms, some not. A minstrel sang her song, and there was dancing and laughing — a celebration of some sort. No one seemed to notice her barging in from thin air.

Saoirse didn't dare to move, at first, afraid to break whatever spell had transported her to this place. The last hours of her life had been full of death and fear, but there was peace here. Friends giggling together, sharing food, swaying in rhythm, everything as far from violence as can be. As it should be. She drank it in. _Just one more minute,_ she thought. _Let me have one more minute of this._

At her side, a young dwarven woman in light armor sipped her drink, her foot tapping along with the music. Hesitantly, Saoirse stepped in front of her, trying to catch her attention. But the stranger's freckled face didn't flinch — she couldn't see her at all, Saoirse realized. Was this a dream? Had she become a ghost?

_Where am I?_

An empty throne sat under the windows. _Whose castle is this?_ Her eyes darted across the room, searching for anything familiar. The crest adorning the banners was unknown to her, and the keep was ancient, but sturdy. Though she couldn't feel the air on her skin, everyone in the crowd wore wool and furs. Their voices came to her muddled, as if she were underwater, yet she was fairly sure they spoke Common.  
Not helpful. She could be anywhere in Ferelden.

Then she saw _it_.

Among the revelers sat an enormous back wolf, looming over them all, dwarfing even the tallest soldiers. People walked around the beast, oblivious to its presence as it stayed still, hiding in plain sight, watching. Waiting for something.  
Teeth shone under dark fur. Saoirse took a step back, her mind racing. No one could see her, or hear her — how could she warn them? As she opened her mouth, the wolf's head turned to her sharply.  
Three yellow eyes fixed on hers.

The world broke apart, reshaped itself, and broke apart again.

She was in a cave, alone once more, and she barely had time to catch her breath before a wave crashed into her, cold water overwhelming her in seconds.

As her lungs seized, the water and the cave disappeared, tall grass shooting up at her feet. Faltering, she saw a child running towards a cliff, all gangly limbs and tangled hair, and she knew in an instant it was herself she was seeing, and that this was the day she miscalculated her jump and broke her arm. She reached forward, too late. The child leapt off the edge.

The horizon spun, and before her stood a walled city, its structures crumbling, vermin devouring it from the inside, the sound of their teeth deafening as they reduced the stone to rubble.

She blinked once, and the city dissolved into rot. A tower sprouted from the ground in its place, long and narrow, pale against a black sky — _Kinloch Hold_. As soon as recognition struck, the Tower snapped in half with a sharp crack like a bone shattering, and blood gushed from its fracture, pouring into lake Calenhad.

Her heartbeat pulsed through her entire body, fast and erratic. The Fade shifted around her once more, and her fists balled up as she gathered all her willpower into a single word.

**_STOP_ **

The shifting halted. All color and light and sound drained from her surroundings like water evaporating in the sun. Before her eyes, the Tower turned to ashes, leaving nothing but dim greyness behind. She was in the void again. Saoirse released a breath.

Then she heard a noise behind her, like a muted sob.

She couldn't bear to turn around. _No more_ , she begged whoever, or whatever was doing this to her. _Please, no more._ Tears ran down her cheeks. She shut her eyes; she would have prayed, but Andraste's grace didn't reach beyond the Veil. Or people like her.

When she opened her eyes again, the world had turned as dark as a tomb. The sobbing hadn't stopped.

Saoirse swallowed hard, summoning light in the palm of her hand, and turned,.

Silhouettes emerged from the darkness. A woman knelt in front of an altar, shoulders heaving as she wept. Her black dress pooled on the ground — a mourner, it seemed. She had her back to Saoirse, but something felt familiar about the curve of her neck, the thick curtain of her hair.

_Mother?_

Saoirse took one step closer, the scene becoming clearer as she did. A figure laid still on the altar. _This is a funeral_ , she realized.

She took another step.

******

Saoirse blinked up at the ceiling. Everything _hurt._ Her ribcage felt like it had been chewed and spat out by a large animal. Her limbs ached to the bone, and her throat was hoarse, but she could feel all of it. She was alive.  
How that was possible, she had no idea. She also didn't know where she was.

"Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased."

Saoirse raised herself up on her elbows with a wince. Across the room, the young witch she met in the Wilds put an old book back on a shelf, peering at her.

"Err… yes. Where am I?" Saoirse asked, light-headed.

"Back in the Wilds, of course. I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten, and I have just bandaged your wounds."

Saoirse looked down at herself. The blanket had slipped off her, and there was gauze wrapped above her left breast and around her abdomen. She was also naked, but she felt it'd be impolite to interrupt Morrigan to ask where her robes were. The Circle's dormitories weren't known to foster modesty anyway.

With more patience than she'd expected of her, Morrigan told Saoirse of her injuries, of Flemeth's rescue, of the fall of Ostagar. The Wardens were dead, she said, matter-of-fact, and so was the King. Dully, Saoirse thought of Duncan, of Maric, of all the soldiers she'd seen preparing for battle. All those lives snuffed out in a single night. She felt sick.

"Your friend…he is not taking it well."

_He's alive._

Saoirse sank back on the bed. _Thank the Maker._ The Maker stayed silent, though Morrigan seemed flustered when she thanked her as well. She could hardly be used to it, considering Flemeth's demeanor, Saoirse thought.

The older witch was waiting outside, and so was Alistair. She needed to get up.

"Erm. Morrigan? Would you happen to know where I could find my clothes?"

"I certainly would." Morrigan pointed at a basket of bloody, torn fabric by the fireplace, yellow and blue scraps poking out.

"Oh. I think I have a spare in my pack —" _the pack that I left at the Warden's camp in Ostagar. Shit._ The loss of it stung; she didn't own much, but it was all in there. "Well..." She trailed off and looked to Morrigan. Yellow irises glinted with amusement in the light of the hearth.

"I'm assuming you'd like for us to provide you with something to wear, yes? You wouldn't want your templar friend's head to explode." She paused, as if contemplating the idea. "There are clothes you could borrow in here." Morrigan jerked her head at a wooden chest in the corner of the room.

"Thank you, truly," Saoirse said, hoping that whatever was available would cover more than Morrigan's attire. It looked rather drafty.

Getting out of the bed with another wince, she went to search through the chest. After rummaging for a bit, she pulled out simple undergarments, woolen trousers, a snug undershirt and a faded white linen tunic, as well as a pair of leather boots. The trousers were too short, the boots too small and the tunic drowned her, but they would do. She dressed in silence, still woozy, as Morrigan started tossing vegetables in a pot.

Pale sunlight shone on the swamp outside the hut. Saoirse recognized Flemeth, standing by the water, and the tall figure behind her — Alistair.

"See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man." Flemeth said.

Alistair turned around, and his relief as he saw her was so plain, so open that her breath caught.

Flemeth may have rescued them, but he had risked his life to save her.  
One day, Saoirse vowed, she would return the favor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason we all come to AO3 -- Warden politics!
> 
> (also: Alistair arrives in Weisshaupt)

**9:41 Dragon**

Saoirse could feel a migraine forming at her temples as the Chamberlain called for order, his gavel echoing through Weisshaupt's Great Gall. Six of the Warden-Commanders had expressed their opinions in the last two hours, and a consensus was nowhere in sight. A fistfight seemed more likely.

Fighting an impulse to bite her fingernails, Saoirse folded her hands and looked across the room. At the North end sat the First Warden and her High Constable, impassible as ever, with the Warden-Commanders' half-moon table and the Chamberlain's pulpit separating them from the rest of the crowd. Rows of pews curved around them like ripples in water, Senior Wardens at the front, Ensigns in the back. Five hundred gathered within the white walls of the Great Hall, having traveled from all over Thedas on the First Warden's directive. Those who arrived late stood up crowded against the walls, and hundreds more were scattered throughout the fortress.

The First Warden had called for a special Assembly, during which the Commanders would present solutions to their current crisis in front of their brethren, not behind closed doors. Such a gathering hadn't happened in three centuries, but there was nothing usual about their situation.

"Blind theories about the origins of this Calling are of no interest to me. I want to hear solutions," the First had said in her opening address.

She'd cast a somber look around the Hall then, her dark eyes sharp. She was short, even for an elf, with lines drawn deep in her face, yet still radiated authority. "These are troubling times for our kind. A unified response is imperative."

A simple demand with no simple answer. Wardens valued their independence fiercely, and one became a Commander through self-reliance, resolve, and stubbornness; debates among High-Command were contentious at best, and seemed impossible now that fear gnawed at their minds.

"Might I remind you," the Chamberlain said dryly after a vicious jab from the Antivan Commander to her Rivaini counterpart, "that you were not called here to bicker over petty squabbles?"

The Antivan, Cayetana, scoffed. "Oh, so now Rivaini interference is a _petty squabble_ —"

The Chamberlain cut her off, his thin, pointy face pinched with irritation. "A thousand apologies for my poor choice of words, then. As I was saying, our options so far are…"

He peered at his notes. "Assuming that this signals a particularly strong archdemon, we should fortify our positions in each nation and intensify local recruitment for what could be the deadliest Blight ever seen, so that we are prepared wherever it emerges." Tessares of Nevarra and Ortraud of Alamar nodded in unison.

"Also suggested was reaching out to the leaders of our respective nations and demand their assistance, so that we may use them to find the exact source of this… disturbance, and consequently deal with it."

 _He still won't say "Calling"_ , Saoirse noticed.

"Our treaties clearly state that they are bound to aid us. Why shouldn't we take advantage of them? Is our pride more important than our survival?" Cayetana jabbed her finger at the weathered oak table for emphasis, Gawain of the Free Marches acquiescing at her side.

A withering look from the Chamberlain, who lifted his gavel again as a warning. "You do _not_ have the floor anymore, Commander. As I was saying…"

Stretching her neck, Saoirse caught sight of Sigrun and Velanna, by each other's side as always. Unsurprisingly, Edmond had preferred to skip the Assembly altogether. The warrior hated crowds; she suspected he was busy spoiling Finn with dried meats and belly rubs somewhere in the fortress. Meeting her gaze, Sigrun gave her an encouraging nod, while Velanna rolled her eyes and dropped her head back, her mouth open in pretend agony. A smile tugged at Saoirse's lips.

"And the last suggestion was that we might see this as the Maker's way of telling us that we have lost our way, and should thus be punished." The Chamberlain paused, still reading his minutes. "Is that accurate, Commander Temur?" The Anders Commander bowed his head, his wide eyes unblinking. Most of the room shifted uncomfortably, as it had when the Anders leader first spoke.

Glancing at the empty chair next to Saoirse's, the Chamberlain cleared his throat as he unfolded a letter. "I will now read a message from Commander De Chanson of Orlais, as per her request."

 _"As aggressive darkspawn incursions continue over our wide and troubled nation, we need all Wardens present to protect the people of Orlais, from Commander to Ensign. Be assured that I deeply regret that we cannot join you in the North, and that I wish I had the freedom to do so. I find I can offer no suggestion to the Assembly besides tending to our duties as long as our lungs draw breath. Provided that it doesn't contradict our oath as Wardens, we are ready to follow the First's directiv_ e."

A wave of whispers and scoffs spread through the Great Hall. Clarel's message was in line with Orlesian exceptionalism: no one could say they were surprised by her decision to ignore the First's call to Weisshaupt, or by her obvious slight at her direct hierarchy. " _Provided that it doesn't contradict our oath_ — the gall!" Tessares fumed.

"Can't say I blame her," Gawain said quietly. "Her responsibility is to protect Orlais first. I'd do the same in her place."

The Chamberlain folded back the letter, glancing towards the First Warden, who gave a curt nod.

"Right. The floor will now go to Warden-Commander Amell of Ferelden."

Saoirse felt hundreds of eyes move to her in half a second.

_Don't fidget._

_Eyes forward._

_Shoulders back._

_Watch your breathing._

Maker, she hated giving speeches. Even when they weren't bound to cause an uproar, like hers was about to.

"Wouldn't it be more appropriate for the _acting_ Fereldan Commander to speak?" Ortraud whispered to Terand of Rivain, loud enough for her to hear. He meant it for her ears, of course; Saoirse shot him a bright smile, knowing it would irritate him more than anything else. _Twat._

The uproar didn't matter. There was only one person in the Great Hall she needed to convince.

She smoothed out her face and rose from her seat.

++++++

"Well, that's ominous," Alistair said, watching the fortress' sharp-edged silhouette against the pale sky. He hadn't known what to expect from the Order's headquarters, but credit had to go to its architects: it looked impenetrable. And creepy. And haunted. His mount twitched nervously under him.

"It's not haunted. And it isn't as bad on the inside," Stroud said, though he didn't look convinced himself. "Come on. We're late for the Assembly."

After passing the gates, they rode in the dusty courtyard and left their horses with the Ensigns who worked the stables. Hollis and Maynard bolted to the kitchens while Hull stuck with Alistair, Stroud, Randall and Carver. The five of them made their way to the Great Hall, Stroud leading them through the corridors. The walls around them were impossibly tall and thick, intricate tapestries blanketing the stone at every corner. Ducan was always vague when he spoke of Weisshaupt, even when Alistair bombarded him with questions. _You'll have to see it for yourself,_ his mentor would say. And he had been right.

Alistair let his eyes wander on a gigantic griffin carving when Stroud's voice snapped him back to reality.

"You'll need to go to the Archivists to sort out your situation later — if you still want that uniform, that is. Your armor held well enough against the Varghests," he said, eyeing his splintmail.

"Good luck with that," Carver snorted. "You'll be drowning in paperwork before they toss you even a pauldron."

Alistair grunted noncommittally. He had more to discuss with the Archivists than his uniform, in truth.

"You should ask for one of the newer ones," Randall said. "The blue looks much better on—"

Stroud raised a hand, silencing them: they had reached the Great Hall. Its doors opened with a creak, revealing the Wardens massed within: a throng of humans, elves and dwarves bathed in the late afternoon sun streaming through high windows.

On a dais at the far end of the room sat a large table, a pulpit, and two ceremonial chairs for the high command; a pointy man banged his gavel while most of the men and women at the table argued over each other. Standing up among them was Saoirse, her hands behind her back.

She seemed serene despite the agitation, her face as unreadable as a statue. There was a time when he could guess the true feelings hiding behind her courteous mask. Back then, he'd see her anger, her sadness, her desire in the slightest expression — or at least he thought he could. Perhaps he'd never truly known her at all.

Watching this imperturbable woman across the room, Alistair felt his body tense up. She was a stranger to him.

The man with the gavel spoke up, red in the face. "Apologies for the interruption, Commander Amell. Please continue."

She bowed her head slightly, her uniform glinting in the sunshine. Her head was uncovered this time, dark hair gathered in a thick plait.

"Thank you, Chamberlain. As I said, I'm certain this isn't a Blight, but I wouldn't present an uninformed theory as to the origins of this Calling to the Assembly. Its consequences are what concern me. Admitting weakness is unusual for our Order, but we need to face reality: we are confused, and we are afraid. If anyone wanted to take advantage of us for their own ends, now would be the time. With that in mind, I can't help but worry about Orlais' actions."

Saoirse paused, measuring her words.

"I am _not_ questioning Commander de Chanson's absence out of resentment, or xenophobia. But the closer we got to the Orlesian border, the stronger the Calling pulled at us. Most of you traveled through Northern Thedas, but us Fereldans rode from the South — we've felt the song grow weaker as we moved farther from Orlais. It would be reasonable to assume it is even worse within Clarel's territory. She is independent, but she's not careless: she should have reached out. I'm not accusing her of anything, but I find her attitude highly questionable."

Saoirse's tone was calm, her voice clear. A murmur of assent from the crowd; Alistair guessed it came from Fereldan Wardens. At his side, Hull nodded in agreement.

"To this, I'll add the fact that some of _my_ Wardens received orders to join the Orlesians even after the First summoned us here. If I'm to be accused of interfering, so be it, but please don't let our past disagreements cloud your judgment."

One of the Commanders, a hatchet-faced bald man, glowered at her under his brow. She ignored him.

"And finally, I've heard rumors of an unusual foreign presence on Orlesian soil. I normally wouldn't give them much weight, but these circumstances do change things. _Something_ is happening within that territory, and it should worry us all." She let her gaze trail over the crowd, pausing again. "We are brothers and sisters, and as such, we are bound to protect each other. But such a bond also implies responsibility. If a member of your family behaved in an odd, rash manner, you would worry, and you would check on them. Borders shouldn't—"

He noticed her sharp intake of breath the instant she saw him. For a moment, Saoirse stood very still, grey eyes widening.

She looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

Alistair felt his pulse quicken as he stared back at her. There, under her cracked composure, he caught a glimpse of the woman he once knew, not the cool, collected orator he'd just heard. _Good._ If her old self still lingered, then he might get answers out of her.

A cough echoed in the room, and Saoirse turned away abruptly. In two heartbeats, her poised face was back on, if paler than before.

"Borders shouldn't keep us from our duty to our comrades. Which is why I'm formally requesting an investigation into the Orlesian branch." She sat back down, her eyes fixed on the table.

The hatchet-faced Commander sneered. "I'm assuming this idea about borders doesn't apply to _your_ actions, yes? If we are to launch investigations anytime someone behaves brashly— "

"Like I said, these are unusual circumstances," she replied icily.

"I fail to see how spying on each other will help. Resources should go to our actual duties: defending Thedas against the darkspawn. Our constables report new sightings in the North, should we ignore them because of _rumors_?" The Nevarran Commander asked.

The Rivaini shot them an incredulous look across the table. "Don't be obtuse. It's more than rumors, as she said. Would you be so quick to dismiss the facts if your own neighbors acted like this?"

More voices started rising, tempers flaring again; even the crowd was growing restless. Next to Alistair, Randall whispered, "Could she even do that? Investigate other Wardens?"

"'Dunno," Carver said. "But they can't expect us to just roll over and let Orlais fuck us, that's for sure." He grimaced, remembering Stroud. "No offense, Ser."

The older Warden grunted, deep in thought. He'd shown no sign of surprise at Saoirse's request, observing the scene intently; Alistair remembered his conversation with Saoirse at the Crossed Arrows. _He knew what she planned to do_ , he realized.

The Chamberlain was clutching his gavel when the First Warden rose from her seat and stepped forward on the dais. Silence fell on the Hall in an instant.

"My thanks to all of you," she addressed the Commanders, her voice stern. "You've given me much to think about." The First Warden turned towards the rest of the room, weariness apparent on her craggy features. "But now is the time for us all to eat, and to rest."

"I will issue my edict within three days. You are dismissed."

As hundreds of Wardens got to their feet, Stroud put his hand on Alistair's shoulder.

"Come on. Let me show you to the Archive."

Alistair looked towards Saoirse one last time. Her eyes were on him, emotions battling on her face — disbelief, anguish, relief. He turned away.

"Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

**9:41 Dragon**

Many flaws could be attributed to Saoirse — she could list dozens of them herself — but a lack of foresight wasn't one. She liked to be prepared whatever the circumstances, her mind always weighing possibilities, one step ahead.

Yet _he_ was here. And Saoirse hadn't planned for that.

Pacing in front of the Archive like a caged animal, Saoirse tried to rearrange her thoughts. Stroud told her he'd left Alistair there right after the Assembly, an hour prior. Or two. Or forty-five minutes. This part of the fortress was underground, with only enchanted sconces lighting the way, and no way to know if the sun had set. Anxiety was clouding her brain, sputtering one question after the other, none of them useful.

_Why is he here?_

_Why are the Archivists taking so long?_

_Is he alright?_

_Why is he here???_

_Didn't Teagan read my letter?_

She stopped pacing and leaned her forehead against the cold marble wall, trying to focus. After freeing herself from the other Commanders and finding Stroud, she had run straight to this corridor without thinking, and was about to knock on the door when she caught herself. She didn't know what she meant to do.

So she waited.

Saoirse bounced her forehead lightly against the stone, once, twice, then turned around. The door was still closed, but she wasn't alone any longer.

"Why weren't you at dinner? What are you doing down here?"

Startling her was one of Sigrun's favorite pastimes, and the dwarf would usually get a jump and a yelp out of her, but Saoirse's capacity for surprise was all spent. She stared at her friend, opened her mouth, closed it, and resumed pacing.

"Wow. Are you alright?" Sigrun said, raising her eyebrows. "I know the Assembly was stressful but— "

"He's here."

"Who?"

"Alistair. He's here. He arrived during the Assembly." She chewed on her bottom lip.

"Oh. _Oh. That_ Alistair."

"Mm-hmm."

Sigrun grimaced. "Oh boy. So, you're waiting to…"

"Talk to him. I need to talk to him." That was the plan. All she needed to figure out was what she was going to say. Improvising speeches should have been second nature by then; she'd done it before humans, elves and dwarves, kings and peasants, in too many places to count. Yet only one word came to her mind. _Sorry._

Again and again. _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._

A small hand reached for hers, stopping her in her tracks. Dully, she looked down at her friend's face; her blue eyes were wide with worry.

"Saoirse, come on. You look like you're going to explode. Just take a deep breath, okay? We can't have you blown to bits on these nice, clean walls, can we?"

Saoirse let out a strangled laugh. Not letting go of Sigrun's hand, she exhaled loudly, the sound echoing down the hallway. It took a few minutes for her heartbeat to settle; Sigrun waited with her until it did, rubbing her thumb against the back of Saoirse's hand.

"What if…" Saoirse trailed off, staring at the wall. _What if he doesn't want to talk to me?_

_Why **would** he want to talk to me?_

They both wheeled around as the Archive's door swung open. Out stepped a man in his late sixties with a shock of grey hair, wearing the blue robes of his branch, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man — Alistair.

"Mind you, I've dealt with a similar case once," the old Archivist prattled on. "Oh, when was it… 9:16 Dragon, I believe? We had to create an entirely new procedure from scratch just to find out whether Seniority would apply, especially since that Warden demanded access to our armory. Immediate access, actually, and quite rudely so! You should have seen — oh, Commander Amell!"

Saoirse froze. In the dim light, Alistair's eyes were on her, his expression blank. It was as if they'd never met before, as if he was just curious about the stranger standing in front of him.

In many ways, he looked the same as he used to: long nose, defined jawline, strong brows and soft lips. His coloring hadn't changed either. Saoirse told him once that looking at him felt like staring at the sun, all golden skin, freckles and blond hair — he laughed at her then, his blush spreading to his entire face. They'd been in her tent, sharing her small cot, and he'd buried his face in her neck, letting her feel him smile against her skin. Her heart skipped a beat at the memory, and she forced herself to push it away. He was a different man now.

His cheekbones were sharper than she remembered, as was the rest of his face, all traces of childhood vanished. He wore his hair longer, his beard fuller, and while he was always strong, he'd grown undeniably brawnier. Yet the most striking difference was in his eyes, once so warm, now distant and weary.

_You did this to him._

She opened her mouth, a "sorry" on her tongue, then held it back, turning towards the older man.

"Archivist Advyr." She clasped her hands behind her back. "Well met."

"It's Vydarr, actually," the Archivist replied with a broad smile. "But no matter! You're here to file your report, I presume?"

"My… Right. My report."

"I'm afraid it'll have to wait — I need to bring this young man to the First. Her direct orders, mind you."

Saoirse frowned, glancing briefly in Alistair's direction. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all! 'Tis a bit of a complicated case, but I believe we have all we need. His file specified to bring him to the First Warden, and it appears she's available. Quite a stroke of luck! Quite."

Alistair stayed silent. At her side, Sigrun looked from him to the Archivist, to Saoirse, then back to Alistair, her unease growing.

"Now, one of my colleagues will come by tomorrow for your report, if you don't mind — Warden Alistair and I should crack on. A pleasure to see you, as always," Vydarr said with a wave, then walked away, oblivious to the knot of tensions he was leaving behind.

Setting his jaw, Alistair bowed his head before following after him.

"Alistair. Please, wait."

He paused, glancing at her over his shoulder. _Enough_ , she thought. _Find your bloody spine and get it over with._

"Would you come see me in my chambers, when you can? I'm on the third floor of the eastern tower," she said. "We need to talk."

++++++

The First Warden was studying a long, intricate-looking scroll when Alistair entered her office. Peering at him over her spectacles, she pointed at a worn chair facing her desk.

"Sit down, please."

He complied, his splintmail creaking as he bent. The room was plain and practical, stacks of books organized in neat rows on shelves, with nothing that could serve as a distraction for its occupant. It was warm and quiet, however, and the First seemed less intimidating up-close. Seeing her in the Great Hall, he'd expected coldness out of her, but he felt none: instead, she gave off a serene form of confidence. Her black curls were streaked with silver, cropped short, her tunic simple but elegant; as a fairly nonsensical man, he appreciated no-nonsense when he saw it. After a last glance at her papers, she put them down and steepled her fingers, setting her eyes on him.

"Thank you for coming, Alistair. I hope Vydarr didn't alarm you, bringing you all this way."

"No, not at all." In truth, he had been worried, but the Archivist's babbling had defused much of his tension. Even after their run-in with Saoirse.

"I wanted to meet you." She leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening. "Duncan was a good friend of mine, you see. He wrote about you a few times. Quite unusual for him." A small smile creased her cheeks. "Made me curious."

"Oh. I didn't know that." Memories of Duncan had faded over the years, but his grief at the thought of his mentor hit deep. "I miss him," Alistair said, surprising himself.

She nodded. "As do I."

Through the windows, Alistair could see the last remains of dusk settling on the plains. _How is today not over yet_ , he wondered, spotting bloodstains on his gauntlets, traces of his expedition with Stroud and the others. Tiredness started to seep into his muscles.

The first Warden rose from her seat, walked to a console near the fireplace, and poured two glasses of water from a clay pitcher.

"The Archivists didn't give you too much trouble, I take it?" She asked, settling a glass in front of him.

"Not at all. Surprisingly so, actually. I thought it would be harder to..."

"To come back to us. Yes, I can see why." She walked back to her chair. "It _is_ difficult for Wardens to rejoin the Order after abandoning their post. But yours were unusual circumstances. Commander Amell was quite forthright about that."

Alistair almost spat out his water. He cleared his throat. "She was?"

"Yes." There was a hint of amusement in the First Warden's eyes. "Would you like more water?"

"No, no. Thank you."

She studied him for a moment, her expression growing serious. "She wrote to us after the Archdemon was defeated, and traveled to Weisshaupt when we summoned her. Her decisions in Denerim were controversial, to say the least. Though conscripting Loghain bought us goodwill from the Fereldan crown, and resources, it's unfortunate that he didn't live long enough to face justice from the Order. Even Grey Wardens have to answer for their actions."

Her brows furrowed as she carried on.

"Your exile from Ferelden was a steep price to pay as well. I'm not sure many Wardens would have been as… pragmatic as Commander Amell was." Her frown grew deeper. "Yet a decision had to be made, and this was hers. She made it clear that you didn't leave the Wardens by choice, however. She was quite insistent upon that."

Alistair kept quiet, trying to hide his confusion. Saoirse had lied for him, then _._ Why had she bothered? Out of pity? Of guilt? He thought of the memorial to Loghain, standing proud below Fort Drakon, and a dull ache spread around his heart.

The First steepled her fingers again. "I have to ask: are you truly back in, Alistair? Are you ready to follow your Commander's orders, wherever they may lead you?"

"You mean Commander Amell's orders, I suppose?"

"I do. You _are_ a Fereldan Warden, and Queen Anora is secure enough to let you stay in your homeland, it seems. Still, I won't have tensions and disputes within our territories. We have enough trouble as is. If you wanted to file an official complaint against her, High Command could step in as an arbiter."

He shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary." What he wanted from Saoirse was far removed from Warden politics. Their issue was personal. _We need to talk_ , she'd said. On that, they agreed.

"Understood." She glanced at her windows."It's getting late. Before I let you go, may I ask: do many people know you as a Warden?"

"Not many." After years spent rejecting the Order, going down the Deep Roads had been his first real act as a Warden in a decade. A chance to put things right at last. Before that, he'd fought darkspawn where he found them, but only as himself, never reclaiming the Grey banner. "A few folks in Ferelden, at most."

"Good to know. Thank you, Alistair. My steward will find you a bed for the night." She pushed a lever at the side of her desk, and a sharp bell rang in the distance.

"Welcome back to the Order. And stay ready. I have a mission in mind for you."

******

Saoirse woke up slumped over her desk, a painful crick at the back of her neck. Bleary-eyed, she turned to see Finn basking in a sun puddle on her bed, snoring softly. _At least one of us slept well._

It was light — a bit past dawn, she guessed. She hadn't gotten much rest, busying herself with reports long past midnight, waiting for Alistair. Waiting in vain, as it turned out. He hadn't come.

She dragged a hand across her face, remembering too late the ink staining her fingers, and knocked over a pile of letters with her elbow. The room, at once bedroom, study, and parlor, grew more cluttered with each visit, her research encroaching everywhere. Saoirse had thought of tidying up last night but quickly gave up; keeping up appearances for him felt ridiculous. As if he could think less of her.

With a groan, she got up from her chair. Finn's head rose from her covers as she stepped closer, awaiting his usual head-scritches; Saoirse was happy to oblige. Their morning ritual over, she opened the door for her mabari, letting him run down to the kitchens for his breakfast. Caldwell, her attendant, should be bringing her a meal anytime now. He couldn't come too soon: she'd skipped dinner last night, too anxious to remember to eat, and now her stomach growled in protest. Between her hunger, her aching spine, and the fact that Alistair had refused to come to talk to her, Saoirse felt rather wretched.

_Of course he didn't come._

_Why would he?_

_What right do you have to waste any more of his time?_

_Don't you think you've done enough?_

She gritted her teeth. Her inner voice sounded cruel, this morning, but not incorrect. Her apology echoed in her head, a decade in the making — a decade of guilt and regret, with no one to hear it. She couldn't force him to listen.

Part of her wanted to fall on her bed, bury herself in blankets, and stare at the ceiling for hours. Or days. But she had no time to wallow in her misery. An Archivist would stop by soon to transcribe her latest mission reports at length, and she needed to do something about her back beforehand. A bath would do the trick.

In her cramped washroom, Saoirse summoned water in her tub, warming the liquid with a cantrip until it was almost too hot to bear. Catching her reflection in the mirror above her vanity, she couldn't help but cringe. Ink stained her left cheek, and her hair had turned into a tangled mess overnight, wavy strands escaping her plait. The woman in the mirror was an exhausted mess: harsh weeks on the road had hollowed out her cheeks and darkened the circles around her eyes. Saoirse may not have cared about her appearance as much as she once did, but embarrassment still stung.

Meanwhile, Alistair looked even more handsome than she'd remembered, healthy, _alive._

Like staring at the sun.

Something warm bloomed within her chest, and Saoirse could have slapped herself. She had forfeited any right to feel anything like this for him. The proper thing to do — the only thing to do was to apologize and let him forget her for good.

Hurriedly, she threw bath salts in the tub, removed her nightshirt, and sat in the scalding water. Dunking her head below the surface, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears, she tried to disentangle her thoughts. She was Saoirse Amell, Hero of Ferelden and Warden-Commander, and she needed to get it together.

++++++

Alistair lifted a hand to knock on Saoirse's door, dropped it, lifted it again. It was early, and this part of the fortress was eerily quiet — would she be awake? He ran a hand through his hair. This moment, the two of them facing each other again, was a long time coming. He wasn't sure he was ready for it. Or that he would ever be.

Footsteps rang behind him as he hesitated, and a young man in a servant's tunic emerged in the hallway, straining to carry a sizable covered tray. The attendant shot him a surprised look.

"May I help you, ser?" His voice cracked a little. Between that and the wispy mustache he wore, he couldn't have been older than twenty, Alistair guessed.

"I suppose, yes — My name is Alistair, I'm here to meet Warden-Commander Amell."

The young man nodded, coming up to him at the door. "Right away, ser." He looked around them, arms trembling under his load. "Erm..."

"Here, let me hold it."

With a grateful smile, the attendant handed Alistair the tray and knocked on the door.

"Commander Amell, it's Caldwell, I have your breakfast. May I come in?"

A long silence, then a distant "Yes, please."

Caldwell opened the door, revealing a sunny room crammed with books, scrolls, folios, and trinkets, most of it piled on a wide mahogany desk. There were letters scattered upon the rug, and in the corner, a divider concealed an unmade bed. Saoirse was nowhere in sight. Caldwell took the (surprisingly light) tray from Alistair's hands with a "thank you," his cheeks reddening. He set it down on a squat table between two chairs next to the fireplace and took off the lid, revealing a tea set, dark bread, and berries.

"All set, Commander. Your appointment is also here?" Caldwell called out. Her muffled response came from behind a small door on the southern wall.

"Please tell them that I'll need another half-hour or so. They're awfully early."

The attendant turned to him with an apologetic grimace. "Well, ser Alistair, I'm afraid the Commander isn't availab-- " He was cut off by the sound of splashing water, a "Wait!" and a crash from the other room. After a few seconds, Saoirse cracked the door open.

"Thank you, Caldwell, I'll see him now. You may leave. Alistair, I'll be right with you."

With a bow and a timid smile, the young man exited Saoirse's chambers, leaving Alistair to wait alone. The scent of black tea filled his nostrils; she took hers strong, almost bitter, back in the day. He let his gaze trail around the room, taking in the clutter. On a shelf, next to a tiny, wooden druffalo, a row of leather-bound journals, some more tattered than others; he counted two dozens of them. _Some things never change,_ he thought. He could still see Saoirse hunched before the fire at camp, scribbling down page after page of notes, her brows knitting with concentration. She'd forget half of it if she didn't write it down, she would say when he teased her.

Her voice brought him back to the present. "Thank you for waiting."

Alistair watched her as she walked to the fireplace. Saoirse wore a thick oxblood robe over dark leggings, and wet hair stuck to her neck, confirming that they'd cut her bath short. Coming before her breakfast tray, she hesitated, then turned towards him. "Would you like some tea?" she asked.

Her pitch used to go higher when she was nervous. That hadn't changed either.

"No, thank you."

She nodded, biting her lip. "I thought you weren't coming."

"The First Warden kept me in her office for a bit, then they had to find me a room. By the time they were done, I figured you'd be asleep."

"I see. I trust everything went well?"

"Quite. I've been reinstated, apparently." Earlier that morning, an attendant had brought Alistair the plain Warden uniform he now wore, formalizing his return.

"Good. That's good."

Saoirse stared at the fire with a pensive frown, her profile sharp against the stone walls. He knew that look well: she was weighing her words. Few could ever accuse her of speaking hastily.

"It's a relief to see you here," she said. "I didn't think you'd be coming to Weisshaupt. After we heard the Calling, I sent word to Teagan as soon as I could, so he could let you know not to follow it. I was worried he wouldn't get my message in time."

"He didn't. I was going down to the Deep Roads when I met another Warden. She's the one who told me about the First summoning us North."

Her eyes snapped to his. "What?"

"I suppose I got lucky." He shrugged. "I was with Teagan days before that. The message must have arrived right after I left."

"I see." Saoirse turned back to the fire. "It was Hull, wasn't it? I saw her with you at the Assembly. I'll have to thank her."

"You know her?" She acquiesced. "She never mentioned it."

"That wouldn't be much like Hull, now, would it?"

She wasn't wrong. Alistair knew little of his traveling companion beside her general disdain for everything, even after months on the road.

"I guess not."

Growing wary, he crossed his arms; his shoulders tensed up as silence stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid. None of this was going how he had imagined, far from it. After all this time, was Saoirse really keeping their conversation to basic pleasantries?

Just as the thought came into his head, she let out a quiet sigh, then walked towards him until they were only a few feet apart. She raised her gaze to him, grey eyes resolute, and he couldn't have looked away if he tried. In the morning light, he noticed the details he'd missed in the Great Hall or the dim hallway near the Archives. A crescent-shaped scar marring her the side of her high forehead, another one on her chin. A small bump on the bridge of her nose, where it must have broken. A few lines around her eyes.

The essence of her was unchanged, however. If anything, age had refined her features. She was at once familiar and alien, and _Maker's breath_ , she was beautiful enough to take his breath away, as Alistair was dismayed to realize. Some things truly never changed.

At last, she spoke.

"I know I don't have the right to ask for your forgiveness."

He felt his heart quicken. _Finally._

"I've wanted to apologize to you for so long. I thought of looking for you, to do it in person, so, _so_ many times, but I had no idea where you were. Then Teagan told me you had built a life for yourself in the South, and I figured I should leave you in peace. But now that you're here, I have to tell you — I have to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've hurt you terribly — I never wanted to, but intentions don't matter, do they? Consequences do. There's no undoing what I've done." She swallowed hard, her voice wavering. "Just know that I am sorry. I hate myself for causing you pain, and I'll carry that regret with me until the end of my days. I'll understand if you never want to speak to me again, but I need you to know this."

They stared at each other for a long moment; she started wringing her fingers as he gathered his thoughts. As far as apologies went, this was a good one. Sincere. Heartfelt. Regretful.

For Alistair, it also happened to be unsatisfying. Utterly so.

"You know what, I disagree. Intentions _do_ matter."

Saoirse flinched. His tone had sounded icy, even to his ears.

"Do you know the first time I heard someone explain what you did at the Landsmeet was yesterday? The First Warden knew more about it than I did." He let out a derisive chuckle. "She said you chose to spare Loghain, to make him a Warden, to earn us resources and goodwill from the crown. Is that it? Is that why you forgave the man who caused so much death — the Grey Wardens, the people of Redcliffe, Cailan's army, the mages, the elves, even Duncan? _For resources_? As if we hadn't spent an entire fucking year gathering resources and goodwill all across Ferelden — is that really it, Saoirse? Is that why you chose him over me?"

Her face crumpled, but she didn't look away. "I chose what seemed like the best course of actions at the ti—"

"Don't." Alistair cut her off. "Don't you dare use that line on me. If it was the best course of action, then why lie to the First Warden about it? Why tell her that Anora had me exiled?"

"I wanted you to be able to return, if you ever wanted to."

"So you risked lying to your superior, out of what — out of guilt?"

A hesitation, then a "Yes." Her voice sounded so small.

A memory came to him, unbidden. They'd been trekking through the Bannorn, flirting as they walked, before he'd gathered the courage to confess his feelings. He had called her beautiful, and she seemed taken aback, as if she didn't know the effect she had on him. _Of course you are, and you know it_ , he'd said. _You're ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you'd probably hurt me for not saying._

Her answer had stayed with him for years.

"You told me once that you would never hurt me. Do you remember? That was a lie as well, wasn't it — though you lied to so many people: to Greagoir, to Morrigan, to Bhelen... I don't know why I was stupid enough to think you wouldn't lie to me," he spat out bitterly. "Just as I was stupid enough to think you actually loved me. You would have never betrayed me like that if you did."

Saoirse recoiled like she'd been hit, and he felt a stab of remorse, stronger than he'd expected. Clenching her jaw, she stared at the ground for a long minute, and when she raised her eyes to him again, they were sorrowful but grimly determined. Her next sentences came out strangled, as if her throat refused to let them out.

"There is no explanation that would satisfy you, is there? And I have none to give. I'm sorry."

His anger flared. He was opening his mouth to retort that "sorry" wasn't enough when something above Saoirse's shoulder caught his eye, something red. On a vase, on the windowsill near her bed, stood a single crimson rose in full bloom. He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw the blush spreading on her cheeks as she followed his gaze. It was _his_ rose.

A knock startled them both. With a creak, the door opened to reveal an Elven Archivist holding a clipboard and a pile of papers.

"Commander, I'm here for your report. Shall we… oh. You are busy."

"I would appreciate it if you waited to be invited in after knocking, Archivist," Saoirse snapped.

"My apologies. Should I leave?"

Saoirse looked Alistair in the eyes as she answered, her brow smoothing out, her mouth flattening, all trace of emotion leaving her face. In front of him stood the Hero of Ferelden, the Arl of Amaranthine, the Warden-Commander. Not Saoirse.

"No, I think we are finished here. I have nothing else to say."

++++++

As Alistair stomped down the stairs of the Western tower, he kept his hands at his sides — the urge to punch the wall was almost overwhelming. He'd done it enough times in the past to know that it might break a few bones, and that his anger would still linger afterward. He needed to do _something_ , however. His feelings had been so intense, right under his skin — anger, disappointment, bewilderment.

The worst of it was the pang of desire he'd felt, before Saoirse's apology, as she stood right before him. Wet hair clung to her long, graceful neck, a flash of skin peeking from under her robe, and his fingers had twitched, wanting to reach out. This feeling was off-limits. Better to focus on his anger.

Part of him wanted to climb back up, burst in the door, and demand an explanation. Part of him wanted to leave and never come back. Part of him wanted to fight something, anything, to let his body take over and silence his mind.

And a small, but loud part of him wanted to find the most potent bottle of liquor in the fortress and gulp it down until his brain stopped working.

 _Alright,_ he thought. _Fighting it is._

His head was pounding as he reached the landing and headed towards his chambers to fetch his gear. The training grounds weren't far; he'd heard the sounds of drills being run as he got ready that morning. There was bound to be a sparring partner available. Or a training dummy. Anything would do.

Turning the last corner before his room, he almost collided with Saoirse's attendant.

"Ser Alistair! I was just… There's a package in your room. I mean, I left a package in your room." Caldwell blurted out, high color in his cheeks. "It's from Commander Amell, ser."

Alistair gave him a brief nod, then kept walking.

The package laid near his door, two feet long or so, wrapped in sturdy cloth. He stared at it for a moment, then set it on his bed before opening it. A sword, Alistair guessed from the weight of it, or perhaps two. He was right, and his breath hitched in his throat when he recognized the scabbards: Duncan's sword and dagger. They shone in the light as he unsheathed them. Nestled between them, a note in Saoirse's neat handwriting: _He would want you to have them_ , it said.

Alistair made his decision then.

He'd seen it in her eyes before she gave him her final answer. There was something she wasn't saying, something she'd rather bite her tongue off than let out. He could have bet his life on it.

Because as it stood, none of this made sense. Now, as a decade prior, Saoirse was a prudent, calculating woman. Not the kind of person to do anything drastic without considering the fallout of her actions. She had cared about him, that much was clear. There must have been another reason for her to spare Loghain, knowing what it would do to him, knowing how much it would fill her with regret. A secret alliance with Anora, perhaps. A promise of some sort. Whatever it was, he would find out, for his own sake, and for the Alistair who left the Landsmeet with a shattered heart.

The fact that she had kept and cared for his rose for ten years meant nothing. Nothing at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**9:41 Dragon**

The wind blew through a crack in the broken, blackened wall, sending a shiver through Saoirse's spine. The old Southern tower was drafty at the best of times, and the top floor had been damaged by a fire a few months back — the fact that part of the roof still held was a testament to its builders. Inhabitable and precarious, this floor turned out to be the perfect place for Saoirse's to avoid prying eyes, as Weisshaupt crawled with Wardens.

A raven hung on the beam above her, pecking at the corn husk she brought him as she read the letters he'd carried. Sitting with a charred bookshelf at her back, Saoirse took in Leliana's words: the Conclave was well on its way, as unbelievable as it sounded. Leliana's tone was hopeful, a rare occurrence since the Kirkwall Rebellion. _Both sides have agreed to send their delegations now, thanks to Justinia's efforts. I can't tell you how relieved I was when the Templars finally said yes! To see it happen after praying for it for so long — this feels like a miracle._ The Divine might just pull it off, Saoirse thought, though the fact that the Conclave would be held at Haven gave her pause. Her past seemed to be catching up with her all at once.

Three days had passed since Alistair came to her, and she made herself scarce since, keeping to her chambers and the Archives. It felt cowardly, but she was unsure what else to do. Saoirse couldn't keep his face out of her mind: he looked so furious, so aggrieved, that she almost told him everything then. Almost made it worse. It could not happen again.

A Warden-Commander's duty had to come first, however, and she couldn't afford to be distracted. Especially not now. With a frustrated sigh, Saoirse took her journal out of her satchel, scribbling a few details from Leliana's letter. Above on a page, her notes from her field-commander's message: at least fifty Fereldan Wardens were still unaccounted for. She chewed on her fingernails, her fingers frigid against her lips. How much longer was she supposed to wait for —

"Commander Amell."

Saoirse jumped out of her skin. Turning towards the voice, she saw the First Warden standing mere feet away, observing her. Quiet as a cat, as usual.

"I wish I knew why everyone enjoys startling me so," Saoirse said drily, getting up.

The First gave her a small smile. "Perhaps you should be more aware of your surroundings, Amell." She looked around the room, her dark eyes keen. "I've been looking for you. Are we alone?"

"Yes."

The older woman grew sterner as she stepped closer to her, and held her gaze for a quiet moment before speaking. "You know I cannot approve your request. You saw how the Commanders reacted: an official investigation into the Orlesians would break the Order as it stands."

Saoirse's stomach dropped like a stone. She had known a refusal was likely, of course, but she'd let herself hope that her superior would see reason. _Shit._

"You know more than you let on, don't you? What weren't you saying, at the Assembly?" The First's watchful eyes bore into her. "Tell me. What do you think is happening in Orlais?"

Leliana's raven flapped his wings above them, the sound echoing around them as Saoirse's thoughts whirred. This was her last chance to convince the First, she knew. She couldn't let it go to waste. Her heart in her throat, she spoke as steadily as she could.

"There are few things in the world that could manipulate the taint. I've heard of no sign indicating a Blight from the Deep Roads, no report of an Archdemon waking. We would dream of It if there were." Saoirse paused, considering her next words. "There are others who have power over our kind, however. You know of whom I speak."

The First nodded, her expression somber.

"I don't believe the Architect is responsible for this. But a strange Darkspawn was imprisoned in the Free Marches, in an abandoned Warden structure — you recall my report on Hawke's findings, a few years ago?"

"Your cousin, yes. He said this creature had been slain by his hand. You theorized that this… Corypheus was similar to the Architect."

"Indeed. Before Corypheus died, he seemed able to influence Wardens who came close to him, as the Architect could. You'd think such an ability would be noteworthy to us, but I can't seem to find much about it, over anything about Corypheus. This-- " She gestured at the burnt remnants of bookshelves around them "-- is where our archive on his capture should have been. Every record from the Ancient Age to the Exalted Age in the Free Marches has gone up in flames. Nothing else."

Saoirse let her words sink in, and watched as the First frowned, understanding her meaning. This part of the fortress burning right as the false Calling appeared could be a coincidence, but Saoirse was unwilling to believe that.

"If my theory is correct, the only place with more information about these creatures would be Tevinter, as they would have been Magisters once. Their records are out of our reach, but I don't believe they are lost," Saoirse continued. "According to my sources, strangers were seen lurking around Corypheus' prison during the past year. Strangers who were careful to escape the templars' eyes."

The First pondered for a moment, her dark brown eyes never leaving Saoirse. "You believe those strangers were Tevinterian."

"I do. And before the Calling started, I received reports of an increased number of Tevinter agents crossing into Orlais." Saoirse's heart was racing in her ears, but she held her composure. "You said at the Assembly that you weren't interested in theories. Would you be willing to hear mine now?"

A brief nod from the First, whose mouth had set in a hard line. The air around them thrummed with a peculiar tension; after this, Saoirse would either convince her, or be cast out as a raving lunatic, she knew. She felt like the awkward, gangly girl she'd once been, and wished Finn were here, or any of her friends. It was far easier to believe in herself when they were around.

"I think that the Tevinterians who found the prison discovered something about the creature it held, something about its power over the Blight. They might even have found another one of its kind with similar abilities. And I believe they are using that power to manipulate the Orlesian Wardens. To what end, I can't say." Saoirse's hands tightened around her journal, her knuckles turning white. "But I know they're up to something, I _know_ it. And I want to find out what. Because whatever their plan is, if it involves the Wardens, it is our responsibility to stop it."

"If I'm right and we do nothing, _then_ this will be the end of the Order." Her last sentence hung in the air for a long while, silence falling between her and the First. Quietly, the leader of the Wardens walked to the nearest window, overlooking the courtyard, the outer wall, the steppes beyond. She stood there, silent, and in the pale sunlight Saoirse could see the weariness on her features, the deep shadows around her eyes.

"I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Duncan hadn't conscripted you. I suspect I would have fewer headaches," she said, her brow furrowed.

Saoirse bristled. "I'm not— "

"The Order would be worse off, however. Your instincts have yet to fail me." The First turned to Saoirse, then sighed, looking older than she'd ever had. "What would you propose, then?"

Relief washed over Saoirse as she answered. "If you won't start an official investigation, then send us to Orlais. Let us find out what's going on."

"By "us", you mean your team?"

"I do. We can travel faster and more discreetly as a small group. The less attention we attract, the better." She hesitated, then added: "To be blunt, I'm not sure who to trust within the Wardens. Whoever burned down this floor might remain within Weisshaupt, and they may not work alone."

The First nodded grimly, her eyes traveling back to the courtyard and the dozens of Wardens who sparred there, the sounds of their practice faint in the distance. "The nature of your mission must stay secret, then. To the rest of the Order, but also to your "sources", whoever they may be. This is our concern, no one else's."

Saoirse flushed a little — she meant Leliana. "I understand."

"There is a problem with your plan, however."

"Oh?"

"All four of you are well known amongst Orlesian Wardens, are you not? If you're planning to spy on them or infiltrate them, your companions would be easy to recognize with a short description. After your arguments during the Assembly, I suspect they'll be looking out for you."

_Large dark-skinned human with two missing fingers._

_Blue-eyed dwarf with casteless face tattoos._

_Blond, pointy-faced Dalish elf with unique vallaslin._

Her cheeks growing hotter, Saoirse winced: The First was correct.

"I had to try to convince you," she said, sounding more defensive than she would have liked.

"You did. But I can't allow a large-scale operation with no proof. A small team will have to do, though as you are, your chances of infiltrating the Orlesians are low. You'll need someone they don't know to achieve that, someone outside of our... politics. And I have just the person in mind for that."

++++++

Alistair stared at the First Warden, then at Saoirse, whose gaze stayed firmly affixed to the floor, then back at the First.

"I'm… what?"

"I understand that this is a lot to take in. You're in a unique position to help us, however. Few Wardens would be unknown to anyone in Orlais, or to the Fereldans drafted by Clarel. _You_ could join them without arousing suspicion," the First said, matter-of-fact.

Standing around the room, Saoirse's three companions exchanged questioning glances. They'd all been summoned to her chambers during the afternoon — he'd met them at the door, as confused by his presence as he was by theirs. Once Saoirse let them in, they'd shared his surprise at seeing the leader of their Order sitting by the fireplace. Him being there had been inexplicable until the First detailed their new mission and proposed he'd be the one to infiltrate the Orlesians.

"I won't have anyone join us on this mission against their will," Saoirse said at last, raising her eyes to Alistair. "You can say no. We'll trouble you no further."

Alistair held her gaze; he hadn't missed the hint of desperation in her voice, and she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. She wouldn't have allowed him to be implicated, of all people, if there had been a better choice. Her dog didn't share her troubled attitude, looking at Alistair with adoration, his stubby tail wagging.

"I fail to see how this _addition_ to our party is necessary," the blond elf chimed in, her disdain barely hidden. "Saoirse— Commander Amell knows powerful shapeshifting spells, we've used them in the past to disguise ourselves. Surely that should be enough; no need for us to drag this one along."

"Shapeshifting spells are useful until you're hit with dispelling magic. Which has happened before, according to your Commander's reports, and will happen again if the Orlesians suspect anything. Any other concerns, Velanna?" the First asked drily.

Velanna muttered something under her breath as the dwarf nudged her side.

"This is no easy task: you are asked to travel to a compromised territory in secret, and to spy on your brethren. You are allowed to have questions," the First said, her tone softening. "I expect you to trust my judgment, however, as well as your Commander's. If we are right, this mission will be crucial to the future of our Order."

Her eyes fell back to Alistair. "What say you, then? Are you in, Alistair?"

He remembered her words, the day before. _Are you ready to follow your Commander's orders, wherever they may lead you?_ He hadn't answered her, not really. But there was not a shred of doubt in his answer, spilling out of him before he could even think about it.

"Yes."

All eyes were on him now. Her companions let surprise color their expressions, yet Saoirse nodded, her lips pressed together tightly — she knew he'd accept before he did. The swiftness of his answer had taken him by surprise, but the Order had once saved him; after shirking his duties for a decade, this mission was his chance to be useful at last. He wouldn't let it pass him by.

At the back of his mind, another certainty: joining Saoirse's team was his only shot at getting the truth out of her. If she left and he stayed in Weisshaupt, they might never see each other again.

++++++

Saoirse outlined her plan for the next hours, the First at her side, as they gathered around the maps spread out on her desk. Alistair, Velanna, Sigrun, Edmond (for these were the names of the dwarf and the human), and Saoirse would set out the next day. The First would imply to the other Commanders that her request had been denied, and that she was ordered to continue her previous investigation. Instead, the five of them were to travel through Nevarra to the Waking Sea, where they would split up. Some would cross over to Orlais and scout ahead, finding out where the Wardens were gathering, while the others would investigate Corypheus' prison before sailing to Jader. There, they'd regroup before Alistair's infiltration attempt.

"What do you expect to find at the prison?" Sigrun asked, her gaze trailing over a yellowed map of the Free Marches.

"Any trace of the Tevinterians would strengthen our case, but I'm hoping we can get a better idea of what they found at the prison, at least," Saoirse said. "I'll get in touch with Hawke. He'll guide us to where he found Corypheus — if anything is missing, he'll be able to tell us."

 _Hawke._ The name tugged at Alistair's memory, to his dark, aimless years in Kirkwall. It couldn't be the same Hawke, he thought, remembering the cocky young man who'd down pint after pint with his band of misfits, howling with laughter. That kid wouldn't have defeated an ancient Darkspawn, surely. Alistair winced at the thought of the few times they'd talked: he was pretty sure he'd sputtered about his royal bloodline to him as well.

Uneasy, he scratched Finn behind the ears, his broad head soft and warm. The mabari had settled by his feet, looking up at him every now and then as if to make sure he was still there, and Alistair rested a hand at the top of his head, the gesture familiar despite the years they'd spent apart. Finn's presence in this room full of strangers was more comforting than he could express.

"By the time we all meet in Jader, we might have gathered enough evidence to warrant a full investigation. If not, we'll proceed with our infiltration as planned," Saoirse added, her long fingers tracing the Orlesian port on the map.

"I can provide resources, and an official writ by my hand, but nothing else. Until you've found something, the rest of the Order will be out of your reach. You will be on your own." The First looked at them one by one, her eyes piercing. "You have my trust. You will not disappoint me."

A fact, not a request. The First signaled to Saoirse, who brushed her forehead with her fingertips, an incantation on her lips. The air rippled around them, and slowly, the First's body started to disappear. She'd insisted on the secret nature of their mission — this level of precaution was a stark reminder that no one outside their circle could know about her involvement.

"Good luck," were her last words before she turned invisible. Saoirse went to her chambers' door and opened it, ostensibly to let her team out, and Alistair saw the barest shimmer as the First passed the threshold.

"I will meet you all at the stables at dawn. Sleep well," she said as her companions passed her by; Edmond put his big, clumsy hand on her shoulder as he went, bringing a small smile to her lips.

Alistair was the last to leave, lingering to pet Finn one last time, long enough to notice that the rose was still in its place. A knot in his throat — _this doesn't matter_ , he told himself — he strode towards the door.

"Alistair." He stopped just a few inches from Saoirse as she said his name, and was taken aback by the earnestness of her expression. Her eyes widened when she realized how close they stood, but her voice stayed even as she spoke.

"Thank you."

He paused for a moment before bowing his head, then kept walking towards the stairs. Sleep would not come easy that night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally deleted, reposting!

**9:30 Dragon**

"We are almost out of the Wilds," Morrigan said as they stopped by a narrow stream, the foliage above them blocking out the sun. ''Tis but a few hours to the Imperial Highway. We'll be in Lothering in five days at most."

Saoirse was grateful for the pause; the forest around them was thick and ancient, gnarled roots threatening to trip her every step, and she was the slowest out of the three of them. Despite the relative cold, sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, under her tangled mass of hair, and she struggled to keep her breath even. Whether her weakness was a result of being cooped up in the Circle for so long, or because she'd lost a lot of blood in the Tower of Ishal, Saoirse wasn't sure. Not that it mattered: she _had_ to keep up with Alistair and Morrigan. Slowing them down was out of the question.

"Good. There is still some time until sundown, so we might as well push on. Is that alright with you, Alistair?"

No answer. Alistair was staring at the water, his eyes unfocused, as they'd often been during the past four days. It took a few seconds for the silence to pull him out of his contemplation, and he was startled to see Saoirse looking at him expectantly.

"Hmm? Sorry, what?"

"I said we should push on until sundown. We're not far from the Imperial Highway," Saoirse said, Morrigan clicking her tongue in annoyance behind her.

Alistair gave a shrug and a nod — good enough, Saoirse decided. She'd give him all the space he needed, as long as possible. He tried to hide the depths of his grief, but his face was like an open book, and what she saw there made her feel helpless. Alistair had sat alone by the fire the previous night, before she took her watch, and he had looked so despondent, his broad shoulders drooping, his eyes hollow. Part of her had wanted to reach for him, to offer comfort, but she hadn't known how.

She still didn't know. So she left him alone.

Bending down to refill her waterskin, Saoirse winced, sharp pain arising from the scars the arrows left behind. She found Morrigan's gaze on her as she got up, observing her. Her yellow eyes reminded Saoirse of the creatures of the forest she had glimpsed, curious but alien, as if they belonged to entirely different species.

"You have a twig in your hair," Morrigan said, walking back to the trail.

Saoirse's cheeks flared, her hands reaching up, finding a large twig sticking out of her curls. "Thank you. I'm not used to… well, this," she gestured at the trees surrounding them.

"I can tell. I've noticed that you don't use your magic to keep yourself clean, or for simple things like making Alistair's meals taste edible. Why is that?" Her tone was ironic, but Morrigan seemed genuinely intrigued. Walking behind them, Alistair rolled his eyes but let her jab slide.

"The Circle objects to the use of magic for trivial matters," Saoirse answered, then realized that she'd used one of Irving's sentences, word for word. _Like the mindless parrot he wanted you to be_ , she thought, her inner voice dripping with a bitterness that surprised her.

"Oh, well if the _Circle_ objects," Morrigan said, raising her eyebrows. "Tell me: is all of you know of magic what they were willing to teach you?"

"Well… yes? Aside from the spells apprentices are tasked to create as part of our training, at least. And I learned nothing of magic before the Circle. Neither of my parents were mages, and no one was practicing openly in my village. There are many mages in my family, but I've never met any of them."

"Is that common, for magic to run in one's blood?" Morrigan's tone was casual, but her eyes shone with bright curiosity. She mustn't have talked to many people besides Flemeth, Saoirse thought, imagining spending decades with only the cryptic Witch of the Wilds for company.

"I'm not sure. Some say so, some don't. There were definitely more mages on the Amell side — my mother's side, though my father's great-grandmother served as a seer at court. Whether she was an actual seer or a charlatan, I cannot say. The Chantry forbade such practices after her time," Saoirse shrugged.

The question she wanted to ask in return — _is Flemeth truly your mother —_ remained unsaid. It felt like an abysmally rude thing to ask a stranger, even if they were bound to travel together. Saoirse allowed Morrigan's parentage to consume her curiosity instead, a more innocuous topic to preoccupy her than the darkness of the woods, the horde behind them, or the enormity of the task ahead.

She'd done her best to focus on their immediate issues since they'd left Flemeth's hut: travel unseen, find food, make a fire, stay alive. But during quiet moments, the breadth of their duty dawned on her, robbing her lungs of air: Alistair and she were to travel across Ferelden, demand help from powerful, recluse forces, and unite them behind themselves to defeat the darkspawn. Saoirse didn't know of Loghain's plans, but she could hardly imagine he'd let them form an army within Ferelden without retaliating. Such thoughts made her feel as powerless as the small critters she'd seen scurry around tree roots while predatory birds lurked above. Better to shelve them for later, as long as she could afford to do so, and let milder mysteries take up her mind.

Morrigan hummed a little before turning to focus her gaze on Alistair, her eyes flitting across his features.

"What of you, then? Were there mages in your family? Is that what led you to become a _fearsome_ mage-hunter?"

"I'm not a…" Alistair sighed, then shook his head. "No, not that I know of."

The witch narrowed her eyes a little before turning back towards the trail. "Hm. I wonder if dullness can run into one's blood, then. Rather worrying for your future progeny." Without waiting for an answer, she sped up her pace, weaving between crooked tree trunks. Alistair stared daggers at Morrigan's back but stayed silent. Falling behind, Saoirse gritted her teeth as she added "keep Alistair and Morrigan's from being at each other's throats" to her list of tasks.

++++++

The Imperial Highway stretched in front of Alistair, so long it disappeared on the horizon, and he couldn't help the feeling of relief that filled him as they exited Lothering. The day they spent there had been brutal, the air steeped with fear and dread; half of the villagers resigned to their fate, the other scrambling to save themselves, with all but twenty templars to protect them. Part of him hated the fact that they couldn't stay longer, but they had already done more than most. In this, he was grateful for Saoirse's lead.

On her directions, they had offered some relief to Lothering, in between finding supplies for the road and adding two strangers to their growing band of misfits. And once she saw that there was little else to do without delaying themselves further, she decided that they should leave. Saoirse would glance at him before making a decision, as if waiting for his go-ahead, as if he knew better than she did. That was decidedly not the case. If things were up to him, his soft, impractical heart would battle with his brain until the cows came home. Or, in their case, the darkspawn.

Hoping he was out of Morrigan's earshot, he inched closer to Saoirse as they walked. She looked strained, her thick eyebrows furrowing, and her fingers fiddled with the strap of her satchel. He reached for her shoulder then thought better of it, clearing his throat instead to get her attention.

"You've heard me talk with Morrigan earlier, right? Not that we were discreet", Alistair said with a grimace. He and the witch had pestered each other from the moment they entered the village that morning.

Saoirse let out a huff of laughter. "I did, yes. Though _talking_ is a rather charitable way to put it, isn't it?"

"What can I say — she brings out the best in me," he grinned. "I meant the bit about me preferring to follow. I really do, you know. I appreciate you checking with me before deciding what to do, but you don't have to. I can barely decide which pair of dirty socks to wear every morning."

"Oh." She frowned, uneasy. "Are you quite sure? You're more experienced than I am."

Alistair fought the blush he felt rising on his cheeks. _That's not what she meant, you bumbling idiot._ "I am, huh, I am sure, yes. Plus, I'd say you've proven yourself more than enough. I trust your judgment." He glanced pointedly towards Sten's hulking silhouette. "I might have a few constructive remarks from time to time, still."

She laughed again, snorting a little as she did, and he was oddly proud of himself for it. Most of the time, Saoirse was the picture of dignity, maintaining her poise even deep in the woods with leaves poking out of her hair, or negotiating elfroot prices while standing next to a pile of manure. The effect was undeniable: Alistair had seen the way the villagers had looked at her, how they hung to her words as if they couldn't see that she was just a very young woman, only recently made a Warden. It was nice to see her relax, if only a bit.

"Thank you, Alistair." After a few seconds of silence, Saoirse stopped in her tracks, and sighed, looking back towards Lothering. "We need to turn around."

******

Saoirse found the boy where she expected to, making his way on the road east of the village, and she felt her shoulders relax as soon as she spotted his ginger hair peeking over the tall grass. He had been standing by the bridge near the Chantry all day, calling for his mother, waiting, until Saoirse tried to tell him that she wasn't going to come. She'd known, even then, that he didn't fully believe her, and the thought had gnawed at her as they prepared to leave town. Leaving him on his own had been irresponsible — of course he was going to try and find his mother. She would have done the same.

"I thought I told you to go to the Chantry. This is hardly it, isn't it?" Saoirse said, gesturing at the fields around them.

"But... " the boy hesitated, his little face crumpled with worry. "I thought she might have gotten lost and gone back to the farm?"

With a pang of sorrow, Saoirse thought of the red-haired corpse she'd found outside of town — goodwife Sarha, she was called — and how desperate she must have been to join her son in Lothering before the wolves got to her.

"She hasn't. Your mother is not lost, but she is gone. And she would hate to see you put yourself in danger like this." She took his tiny hand in hers, hoping her voice was as gentle as she meant it. "She wants you to be safe, you know this. And the only safe place around is the Chantry. Will you walk there with me?"

The boy hesitated, his eyes filling with tears. _Please say yes,_ Saoirse pleaded inside her head. She was keenly aware of Sten, Morrigan, Leliana, and Alistair standing a few paces away — hoping they understood why she made them return to Lothering, convincing herself it didn't matter if they couldn't.

At last, the boy nodded. Saoirse took him in her arms, the way she held her younger siblings when they were little — Brennan, especially, had lived on her hip when he was three and she was eight — and he buried his face in her shoulder, his tears seeping in her tunic. Her heart tightened as she pulled him closer. There was so little she could do, but this child, she could help.

Saoirse carried him all the way to the Chantry, her arms straining under his weight until she found Ser Bryant amongst the crowd.

'This child has been calling for his mother outside your Chantry all day. I know you have a lot to do, but you need to take him in your care." She held the templar's gaze, unflinching. "Please. Consider this my payment for driving those bandits out of town."

Ser Bryant hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. Wait here, please."

Sten and Morrigan had declined to enter the church, and Alistair wandered off in the courtyard after the templar departed. Leliana joined Saoirse as she waited with the boy — Cormac, he said his name was, distracting him with a story about the river that ran through Lothering. The Sister was a talented storyteller, Saoirse discovered, weaving a tale about water spirits, knights, and heroes that made Cormac hold his breath.

"And then they all got to go home?" He asked as Leliana ended her story.

"They did. But a person's home changes as time goes by. Home can become a new place or a new person. It's all in here," Leliana said, raising a hand to Cormac's chest. He nodded, a grave look on his freckled face.

Ser Bryant came back a moment later, Elder Miriam in tow, and they let Saoirse know that a family was about to depart for South Reach. Sarha had relatives there who could take Cormac in, according to the Elder.

Saoirse hadn't noticed she was still holding the boy's hand until he let go, and watched as the older woman led him to a group of children at the back of the Chantry. Cormac turned back towards her one last time and waved; his eyes were red, but he was smiling. She felt lighter at once, as if the weight pressing down on her shoulders had been lifted a bit. Although she couldn't forget the faces of the desperate villagers she couldn't save, she had helped _someone_. That would have to be enough.

++++++

They set up camp in a gutted farmhouse for the night, a little ways off the imperial highway. Saoirse had decided that they'd go to the mages first, and it would take them over a week to get there on foot. She'd overheard rumors from a couple of villagers as they finally left Lothering — something about the mages turning into demons, templars considering drastic measures, and the decision as to where to go first had been simple. Redcliffe would have to wait. Alistair was worried for Eamon, but if he'd been sick for a while, his health might remain stable until their group got there. If they had a chance to reach the Tower in time to help its occupants, they had to take it.

Saoirse hadn't said much, but he could tell she was troubled. Leliana tried to ask light-hearted questions about her life in Kinloch Hold as they ate, then dropped the subject as she noticed the hints of distress on her face. The former-Sister was perceptive, if odd. Dinner was quiet after that.

Alistair volunteered to take the first watch. They were all exhausted, but he knew himself: he could stay awake for a few more hours. The weather had been mild enough that they could all sleep comfortably around the fire, and the farmhouse's remains provided enough shelter to forgo tents for the night. Above him, Alistair could see the clear night sky through a hole in the roof. An older Warden, Willard, kept trying to teach him the names of constellations as they traveled to Ostagar. They never stuck, but the man had the patience of a saint. A wave of grief rose through Alistair as he remembered that he'd never see Willard again, or Duncan, or any of them.

Coming back to his senses, he noticed movement from Saoirse's bedroll. The mage was tossing and turning, which was odd — she usually slept curled into a ball and stayed completely still until she'd wake. _She must be getting the dreams,_ Alistair thought. They tended to appear during the first month after one's Joining. He felt bad for her, to only have him as a reference for their Order, but he'd help her in any way he could. "You can only ever do your best," Leliana had said earlier, responding to a pointed remark from Morrigan. The witch had snorted in distaste, but she'd been right, Alistair thought. He would need to remember that.

Saoirse jolted awake at last. In the dim firelight, he saw her grey eyes wide with fear, her expression unguarded, and he had to force himself to stay still, to not go sit by her side and comfort her. She was his comrade, but they barely knew each other, and gestures of friendship like this — that's all they would be, of course — might make her feel uncomfortable. Instead, he spoke.

"Bad dreams, huh?"

"It seemed so real..." she whispered, still dazed.

"Well, it is real. Sort of." Alistair tried to recall what Duncan said when the dreams came to him. "You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That's what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon, it… talks to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."

"The archdemon? Is that the dragon?"

"I don't know if it's really a dragon, but it sure looks like one. But yes, that's the archdemon. It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can't." Willard once told him he heard the beast say _come to me_ , _come to me,_ over and over again. "Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me too."

"Thank you. I— " Stopping herself, Saoirse frowned, hesitation crossing her features. "Do these dreams only relate to the archdemon?"

"What do you mean?"

"When a Warden has these dreams, are they only of the archdemon talking? Or can they look different, like…" She looked at him, then shook her head. "Nevermind. Anyway, thank you for letting me know. I appreciate it."

His curiosity was piqued, but he didn't pry. Anyone would be having nightmares in their situation. "That's what I'm here for: to deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners. Anyhow, you can go back to sleep. Sten is taking the next watch."

Her eyes on the fire, Saoirse nodded, running a hand through her long hair. Her fingers stuck in the tangles, and she muttered something under her breath before laying back down on her bedroll, nestling closer to her sleeping dog. The rest of Alistair's watch went by in silence, and he fell asleep in a heartbeat once Sten took over.

At dawn, Alistair was the last to wake up. Morrigan was grilling some unknown creature over a fire — _better if I don't know what that is_ , he thought — and Sten knelt in a corner, eyes closed, chanting quietly. Praying, Alistair guessed, though he knew too little of the Qun to be sure. Stepping outside the farmhouse to stretch, he saw Saoirse sitting on a tree stump, Leliana standing over her with a knife in her hand. Alistair blinked, his brain muddled by sleep, then noticed a long lock of dark hair falling in the grass, then another, then another. Her work done, Leliana stepped in front of Saoirse, a bright smile on her face. "All done!"

Saoirse reached up at her now-short hair, cut right below her jawline, and smiled back at the redhead. And watching her in the morning light, surrounded by ruins, Alistair thought of the rose he'd picked in Lothering.


	8. Chapter 8

**9:41 Dragon**

Stroud found Alistair at the stables right before dawn. His few belongings gathered in a light pack, Duncan's sword at his back, he'd been committing the fortress to memory. Alistair had been a wanderer for the better part of a decade, never staying anywhere for long, never needing to remember much about a place, but Weisshaupt felt different. His younger self used to dream of coming here, first with Duncan and the others, then with Saoirse. Back then, he'd pictured a fanciful castle, with flourishes more at home in a book of fairytales. In reality, Weisshaupt looked ancient and decrepit, like a hero well past his glory days. Yet Alistair wasn't disappointed. He had been gazing at the Southern tower, slightly crooked against the clear morning sky, when Stroud walked up to him.

"Heard you were leaving," he said, his voice gruff. "I wanted to give you my thanks. You did good work against these Varghests."

"Don't mention it," Alistair said, oddly moved. Between Stroud and Hull, who'd left a small package beside his door for him to find — tea leaves, dried meats, and two pairs of socks for the road — he was reminded of how much he loved traveling with people. In truth, he had missed it all: the petty arguments over how to prepare a stew the right way, the quiet moments around the fire, the rowdy banter, the small gestures of appreciation. As awkward as the next few weeks were bound to be, he couldn't help feeling relieved. He wouldn't have to be alone.

"Carver told me you were leaving with Amell and her team. Off to continue her investigation, I assume," Stroud said, glancing at Edmond and Sigrun, who were saddling their horses a few yards away.

"Well, that was supposed to stay between Carver and me. But off-the-record, that's the gist of it." This was the "official" reason for their departure from Weisshaupt, as agreed with the First. They were to act as if Saoirse had been rebuffed and sent back to her prior mission. Alistair shot a wry smile at Stroud as he adjusted his grey mare's bridle. "They needed extra muscle for the road, and my schedule was clear, believe it or not. "

Stroud said silent, his sharp blue eyes boring into him, but Alistair didn't waver. He was a decent liar, he knew. After a moment, the Orlesian extended a hand.

"Good luck." He lowered his voice as Alistair shook his hand. "Keep Amell safe out there. We'll need her in one piece."

Alistair frowned. "What for?"

"Whatever comes next," Stroud said, walking back to the Main Hall.

As much as Alistair liked Stroud, he couldn't help but feel that his balance between bluntness and mystery could use some work. His attitude matched the First and Saoirse's, their insistence on secrecy, the worried looks they'd exchanged. The troubles that plagued the Wardens went beyond the Calling, this much was certain. As if on cue, a tall figure in uniform emerged in the courtyard. It took a few seconds for Alistair to place the man, whose long hair was a peculiar shade of burnished copper; during the Assembly, he'd been sitting by the First's side, leaning back into his chair. Adder, the Order's High-Constable, strode towards the stables, his nonchalance a physical force. Alistair knew little about him, save for the fact that he was the First's envoy to most courts across Thedas. Watching him brimming with calculated confidence, a smile on his handsome, fox-like face, Alistair recalled the noble-born sons who'd relentlessly mock him as a child. He was too old for such childish judgments, he knew, but Adder _did_ look like a twat.

The twat's smile grew wider after spotting Saoirse, and he sidled up to her as she prepared her horse, her attendant by her side. Adder leaned closer to her, and they kept their voices low as they spoke — they were too far for Alistair to overhear, but there was no mistaking her icy disdain. The Constable grew giddier at her coldness, leaning even further into her space, and Alistair felt his own fists clenching. But as Adder stepped back, Saoirse hissed something between her teeth, and his cockiness vanished like a puff of smoke. For a brief instant, he stared at her, his jaw tightening, before his lips curled up again and his shoulders drooped in an exaggerated sigh.

"A pleasure, as always, _Commander,_ " Adder said with a mock-curtsy before turning on his heels. Edmond and Velanna exchanged knowing looks before continuing their preparations. Glancing back at Saoirse, Alistair saw the stiffness of her back as she finished saddling her mare. Caldwell fidgeted by her side until she gave his arm a gentle squeeze, and he was about to turn around when he noticed Alistair staring. The boy blushed bright red and bolted away before Alistair could wave in greeting. Saoirse seemed as confused by her attendant's behavior as he was, until she followed his gaze and noticed Alistair. In an instant, her face softened into a smile, and she shook her head slightly before grabbing her horse's reins.

He had almost forgotten how smiling transformed her entire face. Swallowing hard, Alistair fiddled with his scabbard, then with his saddle, then with his pack, until the moment had passed.

They left soon after in silence, the five of them riding out of the fortress as the sun broke over the horizon.

******

Few roads traversed the Anderfels, none of them leading directly from Weisshaupt to the Nevarran border, but crossing through the desert on horseback would take a lot of preparation for a minimal gain of time. Their plan was simple: travel to Kal Sharok, then take the road to the East to reach the Nevarran Highway. From there, they were to stay on smaller roads South of the Minanter river until they reached Cumberland and its harbor. It looked simpler on a map, as such plans usually did.

The first day of travel was uneventful. The only signs of life on the road were other Wardens riding to Weisshaupt, and none of them were Fereldan. _Fifty Fereldan Wardens still unaccounted for._ The number was on Saoirse's mind as they rode on, the desert's eerie emptiness stretching around them. Late Winter in the Southern Anderfels was mild, but the wind bit cold on exposed skin, and grew deafeningly loud at times. Not that Sigrun, Velanna and Edmond would have been chattering as they traveled — after years spent together trudging through Thedas, silence was comfortable enough.

Their new situation, with Alistair tagging along, was far less so. The five of them had to pause a few times to let their horses drink and rest, and between Velanna's glares and Edmond's palpable awkwardness, these breaks were less than comfortable. Alistair bore it well, considering, and Saoirse knew that Velanna's hostility had no teeth. The elf was simply grouchy that their routine was disrupted, and worried for her friend. She had no need to be, however. Alistair seemed resolute to behave as if he didn't know Saoirse, his eyes sliding off her without a hint of emotion.

By dusk, they neared a craggy volcanic rock formation — a rare shelter from the wind, and a suitable place to set up camp. With practiced gestures, Edmond unsaddled the horses as Finn jumped from the custom saddlebag he traveled in, Saoirse started pitching the tents, Velanna built a fire and Sigrun prepared dinner. Halfway through her task, Saoirse noticed Alistair setting up the other tents, Finn prancing around his legs. She couldn't help but wonder: from what Teagan told her, Alistair was settled down in the South, married, at peace. Yet he seemed so at ease on the road — what had his life been like, all this time?

The question stuck at the back of her mind as they sat down to eat around the fire. Sigrun plopped stew into their bowls before taking a spot by Velanna's side, and shot a bright smile at Alistair. "So! We haven't formally introduced ourselves, have we? I'm Sigrun, and this is…"

"...Velanna," she grumbled after a nudge from the dwarf.

"Over there with the horses is Edmond," Sigrun said, pointing at her large friend half-hiding behind his steed, bowl in hand. "He's real shy, but I'm sure you'll get along."

Alistair smiled at her. "Good to meet you all. I'm Alistair."

"Nice to meet you as well!" She was warm enough to melt the Frostbacks, as per usual. "You arrived in Weisshaupt with Stroud and his boys, right? Is Carver still kind of a prick?"

He paused mid-chewing, taken aback. "'I only met him three days before we got there, but I've witnessed… a normal amount of prick-ness, I'd say?"

"Eh, I guess he did improve some. Did you come from Ferelden on your own, then? That's quite a long trip."

"It _was_ long, rather, but I was lucky enough to have company. Do you know Hull, or maybe Maynard?"

"Hull? We sure know her! We went on a mission together once — " Sigrun grabbed Velanna's arm, delighted " — Remember? That one time on the Storm Coast! She's the one who threw you across the river!"

Velanna's face grew bright red, and Saoirse bit her lip to suppress a laugh.

"That does sound like Hull," Alistair said, his grin widening. "I've seen her wrestle with a wild druffalo once, and she ended up tossing it over her shoulder. You haven't lived until you've seen a druffalo mid-air, upside-down, with the most confused look— "

"So, what did Adder want?" Velanna cut him off, her cheeks still red, prompting a muttered " _rude"_ from Sigrun.

Saoirse shrugged. "To gloat. It seems like he's buying into our cover — he offered his sympathies for my "public humiliation," in his words. I didn't have to try hard to look offended."

Rolling her eyes, Sigrun groaned. "I _wish_ you'd let me punch him." She turned back towards Alistair. "You know about the High Constable, right?"

Without waiting for an answer, Sigrun launched into a laundry list of Adder's many faults: his stupid custom-made uniforms, his barely-hidden ambition to replace the First, his lack of combat prowess, his hostility towards Saoirse, his haughty attitude, his "scheming ass." Alistair listened, curious and amused, while Velanna's yawns grew more persistent. Eventually, the elf got to her feet, stretching her limbs.

"I'm going to bed," she said with an insistent stare towards Sigrun, who stood up as well.

"Then I guess I am too. Sleep well," Sigrun told Alistair with a grin as Velanna led her towards the tent they shared.

Saoirse took the first watch after Alistair and Edmond retired to their respective tents, and she was grateful to find herself alone. There was much to plan ahead for, and a problem that sorely needed solving: soon enough, the team would have to be split in two, half to Orlais, half to Kirkwall. Sigrun was their best scout. Edmond spoke Orlesian. Alistair couldn't be seen in Orlais until they knew what they would face. Each team would need a mage. And Saoirse had to be in Kirkwall, as Hawke was her cousin, and she knew more about ancient darkspawn than any of them.

Sigrun, Edmond, and Velanna to Orlais. Alistair and her to Kirkwall. The obvious solution, and the only one she couldn't face.

++++++

"I can't believe we're paying for this," Sigrun said as she brought a plate to her nose, her face scrunched up in disgust. The food served at the Cracked Flagon, the only tavern in the settlement outside Kal-Sharok, was meant to appeal to surface-born Anders dwarves, and none else — few others would attempt to trade with the reclusive thaig. Its owner was part of that community, as were most of the settlement's inhabitants, hence the amount of Bronto cheese on the menu. Alistair looked down at his plate of fried mushrooms, which had come covered with a hefty pile of the "delicacy."

"You say that every time we eat here," Velanna said, thumbing a slice of lichen-bread.

"They just don't know how to cook it right— " Sigrun seemed about to launch into a rant when Saoirse sat down next to her at the table.

"What did I miss?" She had to raise her voice to be heard: dinner was well underway in the Cracked Flagon's crowded main room.

"Sigrun thinks they put too much of that terrible cheese in the soup. Or was it not enough? I can't keep track," Velanna mused, dodging the piece of bread Sigrun threw at her head. "Were there any messages?"

"Well, we're only here for the night, so bear with it, Sig. And yes." Saoirse set down a letter between cups, its strong, blocky penmanship visible to all.

"What's Tabris saying?" Sigrun asked, pushing a spoon around her plate.

"Wardens were spotted crossing from Orlais into Ferelden, North of the Frostbacks. Small groups, saying they were headed for Orzammar. That would have been three weeks ago or so." Saoirse chewed on her fingernail, frowning. "She says no one in Orzammar has seen them."

"Tabris?" Alistair knew that name, he thought, though he couldn't place it.

Saoirse's grey eyes found him across the table. "She's my second-in-command — my field-commander in Ferelden. I'm on the road rather often, but Kallian's able to stay at Warden's Peak and oversee things from there. You've met her, actually."

"The name does sound familiar..."

"Yes. We released her from the Arl of Denerim's prison, along with her cousin Soris."

Alistair remembered the two of them, gaunt and pallid in the torchlight. Soris had been understandably shaken when Saoirse unlocked their cell, yet even then, the woman burned with determination.

"She found me in Amaranthine, two years later, and _demanded_ to be made a Warden. She's hard to refuse, that one," Saoirse added, with a hint of affection.

"Glad to hear it. I've always wondered what happened to those two."

"Alright, that's it." Velanna got up from her seat, shaking her head. "I can't watch you play with your food for one more minute. Let's go see if that Nug-gets stand you like is still open."

Sigrun beamed and followed her, taking the elf's hand and giving it a quick kiss. Alistair didn't miss the rare, fond smile on Velanna's face as the couple exited the dining room.

There was a noticeable lull after they left. Alistair, Edmond, and Saoirse ate in silence, the latter shoveling an impressive amount of porridge into her mouth as she reread Tabris' letter. Alistair tried to finish his meal but was distracted by the Orlesian, whose dark eyes darted from Alistair to Saoirse with increasing discomfort. His unease seeped out of him like water off an overflowing barrel until he stood up, mumbled under his breath and trundled off, plate in hand.

Saoirse and Alistair blinked at him as he attempted to make his way between tables, his large frame sticking out amongst the dwarves, then at each other, suddenly alone. "What did he say?" Alistair asked.

"Something about checking on Finn, I think. Not his best excuse. Finn has been under the table all dinner."

"Waiting for us to drop something, I bet."

"You know him well." Folding back the letter, she chewed on her bottom lip before speaking again. "I've been meaning to thank you for… Well, things between us are… I mean…You know."

Her voice came out strangled by the end of her sentence, and Alistair took pity on her — Saoirse had never been good at talking about these things.

"I know."

She nodded, clearing her throat. "I appreciate how gracious you're being. I know that traveling with me cannot be easy for you."

"No need to thank me, really." Alistair paused, watching her long, delicate fingers crossing over her plate. The skin of her left wrist caught his eye, peeking from below her sleeve: there was a new scar there, one he hadn't noticed. He'd done his best to avoid looking at her since they'd left Weisshaupt, eight days prior. As they sat across each other, he could hardly keep doing so, but here was a rare chance to ask a question that had nagged him.

"Why did you agree to have me join your team? I'm guessing it was the First's idea."

Her head snapped up in surprise.

"I mean… Surely someone more capable could have taken the job. There must be another Warden who— "

"No. The First said you'd be the best person for the job, and she was right. You're unknown to the Orlesians, you're not entangled in Warden politics either, and you _are_ more than capable."

Alistair shifted in his seat, taken aback by her sincerity.

"You are." She said firmly. "To tell you the truth, I was hesitant to ask you to join, but that's because I knew you would say yes. I didn't want to put you in that position."

"How did you know I'd say yes?" _Am I that predictable,_ he thought, not without frustration.

"If we succeed, we could potentially save the Order. And you were always loyal to the Wardens, always ready to help others. You've never shied away from your duty."

"I did, once."

Her face fell, and for a heartbeat, they were both back at the Landsmeet, surrounded by nobles, a defeated Loghain kneeling at their feet.

"That was different," Saoirse said, quiet. Clutching her cup, she drank the rest of her ale before standing up. "I should— "

"What was wrong with your attendant?" The words slipped out of him. Desperate to change subjects, and baffled at his own instincts, he continued. "Back in Weisshaupt. That kid ran away from the stables the second he saw me."

Saoirse stopped, tilting her head. "Caldwell? Did he — Oh." Her cheeks reddened. "Well, he hasn't told me, but I think he might find you rather... _chivalrous_. Suffice to say you've made quite an impression on him." A corner of her mouth lifted at his confusion.

"Good night, Alistair."

Alone at last, he blew out a breath, tilting his head back. _What are you doing,_ he thought. Was he trying to ease their rapport so that she'd be inclined to tell him the truth? Was he just being kind? Or was there another reason, one that he was certainly not willing to face?

He needed to figure it out, and quickly.

******

Over the two weeks that followed, their new routine solidified as they crossed into Nevarra, the scenery around them shifting from desolate steppes to rolling hills. Their uniforms concealed under woolen cloaks, the five of them kept to smaller roads, stopping only occasionally to spend the night in an inn or procure food. They camped outside most nights, taking advantage of the temperate Pluitanis weather. Sigrun would find an appropriate spot between fields and orchards, and they would repeat the same gestures. Unsaddle the horses, build a fire, erect the tents, prepare dinner. Saoirse and Alistair took care of the tents each night in silence, sat at different ends of the fire, and took opposite watches. She was relieved that they could stay civil, and even more so that they didn't have to talk to each other.

In truth, Saoirse had been delaying the inevitable. She would have to tell her companions, and soon, that she and Alistair should be the ones to go to Kirkwall; the idea made her chest clench up, but there was no better solution. _Tomorrow. I'll tell them tomorrow,_ she told herself, night after night, then said nothing. Yet she knew she was running out of time _._

Their conversation in Kal-Sharok hadn't left her mind: Alistair had been cordial, even kind. He got along well with Sigrun and Edmond, the three of them sparring after dinner; even Velanna's attitude towards him had thawed. They had found themselves in a few skirmishes since leaving Weisshaupt: sandstalkers, wolves, a few highwaymen. All had been dispatched with ease, and Alistair clearly held his own next to the rest of the team. In all logic, these elements should have reassured her. They didn't. Her brain saw them as evidence that the mission could succeed, and her heart as signs that she should run for the hills.

So Saoirse bided her time, trying to maintain the biggest distance possible between Alistair and her without causing offense. She thought she had been doing a fine job when, one day, Velanna came to sit by her side as dusk set upon their camp. They had found a secluded clearing, deep in the fields of Ghislain, and were idling before their dinner.

"He's not too bad, your shem," the elf said, watching Alistair train with Edmond a few paces away.

"He's not my shem," Saoirse replied without lifting her gaze from her journal. "And yes, I know."

"Ah, so you _can_ see him. I was starting to wonder."

Saoirse raised her head, about to protest, when she saw Velanna's spot-on (if unflattering), shifty-eyed impression of her.

"It's not that bad, surely," she mumbled, feeling her face heat up.

"Oh, it is." Velanna raised an eyebrow, a playful grin on her lips. "I have to say, it's kind of funny to see you like this. You don't fluster often."

"I'm delighted to entertain you." Saoirse sighed and stretched her legs in front of her. After weeks of travel, her right thigh ached every single night. She didn't mind her mare, but riding on horseback would never be comfortable for her.

"You need help with that?" Velanna asked, gesturing at her leg.

"No, it's fine. Save your magic."

Her friend snickered. "For what? This has been the most peaceful trip in history. You worry too much."

"You sound like Sig." Saoirse watched as Alistair and Edmond exchanged careful swings, sunset painting the countryside pink behind them. Edmond was larger built, but Alistair matched his strength blow for blow. Panting, he stepped back and said something to the Orlesian, a broad smile on his face, and Saoirse felt her heart skip a beat. _This is dangerous_ , it told her.

"We've been lucky," she said, averting her eyes. "And we always run out of luck."

******

Their luck ran out two days later.

The Wardens had been crossing a forest near Attaris, a small village where they planned to spend the night. Rainy clouds hung low above them as they followed an old, overgrown road through dense woods; evergreen trees encroached on their path like weeds, and they hadn't seen another soul in hours. Sigrun was scouting ahead, Edmond bringing up the rear. Lulled by the sound of rain falling, Saoirse had let her thoughts wander when Finn's head snapped up from his saddlebag.

A branch cracked to their left. Before Saoirse could call out, an arrow shot out from the trees with a shrill sound, and Sigrun fell off her steed.

They were off their horses in a heartbeat, mud splashing under their feet. Velanna's face contorted with rage as she raised a Fade shield around them, and the air shimmered with her magic. As Finn darted forward, four figures emerged from the woods behind them, clad in chainmail, weapons drawn. Raising his shield, Alistair stepped back, Edmond at his side. As she muttered an incantation, Saoirse's skin hardened into stone, just in time — she felt a dull bite in her back as an arrow bounced against her protection. She wheeled around, but the archer remained hidden. Another arrow, missing her, the next lodging into her staff. To her left, Velanna darted her eyes from their attackers to the trees to Sigrun's motionless body. Finn was guarding her, hackles raised, but she needed help, and quickly.

"I'm drawing them out — be ready!"

Slamming her staff to the ground, Saoirse conjured a vortex of energy in the middle of the path. _Pull._ With a great crack, trees bent towards her spell, then she heard a yell. One man, then a second, crashed into her magic, ripped out of the forest. Velanna dashed past them to get to Sigrun, casting more protection spells as she ran. The two archers were crawling to their feet when Saoirse broke the spell, staggering them, and summoned a cone of ice that caught them both. Magic pulsed beneath her skin, beating like a drum. She focused it at the ground beneath her feet, pulling stone out, when she heard a strangled sound at her back. As she spun around, she saw a woman just five feet away, dropping her blade as she clutched at her chest. A dagger's hilt stuck out between her ribs, blood gushing around it. _Duncan's dagger._ Wiping rain from her eyes with her sleeve, she went back to her spell.

"Finn!"

With a deep growl, her mabari rushed from his spot, crashing into one of the frozen archers.

The man fell to the ground and Finn's powerful jaws clamped down hard on his throat. The other shattered as Saoirse's stone spell smashed into him. _Two down._ She whistled sharply, pointing to the forest. Dropping his prey, Finn bolted between the trees, hunting for hidden others. Three of the attackers still stood on the road — the bigger one, a pale man with ice-blond hair and a jagged axe, swung hard against Edmond. The Warden dodged and parried, almost graceful, letting his opponent exhaust himself, as Saoirse had seen him do a thousand times. Mere paces away, Alistair faced a human and a dwarf, his shield up, a dead body at his feet. The two circled him, steady and well-armed.

Time slowed down around Saoirse as she gathered her magic in waves; she rode it forward, flying between raindrops, and in half a second she was behind the attackers, too fast for them to notice. Catching Alistair's surprised face over their shoulders, she let her power burst in a shockwave of energy. His assailants lurched forward, disoriented, and Alistair saw an opening. He swung his sword, slicing the human's throat, and cracked the dwarf's skull with his pommel. They fell at the same time, wordless, as the pale man fighting Edmond stumbled forward, his foot catching. In the blink of an eye, Edmond was on him, plunging his greatsword in his chest. Their assailants laid in the mud, dead or dying. It was over.

Saoirse exhaled sharply, her mind racing. "Are you hurt?"

They shook their heads, catching their breath; Alistair looked at her, his face still strained. "Are you?"

She was about to answer when Edmond rushed past them, running towards Sigrun and Velanna. Saoirse followed right after him; the dwarf still laid in Velanna's arms, unmoving. As she got closer, Saoirse saw the arrow lodged at the base of her neck and blanched. It had been a long time since any of them got hurt like this.

"Ed, can you help?" Velanna asked, her voice steady.

Edmond nodded and hitched up his sleeve, revealing a shallow cut, fresh from the fight. The elf laid a hand on it, the other resting on Sigrun's wound. "Saoirse, the arrow," she said, closing her eyes. Saoirse knelt down and grabbed the shaft.

"Now."

Saoirse sent a controlled burst of fire down the wood, turning the arrow into ashes, and pulled back her hand, drawing out the remains. As she moved, Velanna started her incantation. Blood seeped quickly from Edmond's wound, disappearing into her hand, as the injury on Sigrun's neck glowed bright red and started to close. For a brief instant, the air smelled of rain, metal, and earth, then Sigrun's eyes fluttered open at last. Relief flooded Saoirse's body; they had suffered worse, but every healing felt like a gamble.

"Maker's breath—" Alistair stood before them, his face drained of all color. He seemed _horrified_ , and Saoirse realized in a flash of panic that they had never used this magic in front of him before. They should have been more careful.

"Was that _blood magic_?"

Maintaining her spell, Velanna gritted her teeth and hissed an Elvish curse. " _Creators_ — get your shem to _shut up_ before I do." At her side, Edmond stood unnaturally still, his stare fixed on Alistair. Her heart pounding, she stepped in front of Alistair.

"Alistair, please — this isn't what it looks like."

He looked at her with utter disbelief. "How stupid do you think I am?! Look at it!"

Even as they argued, Velanna's magic flowed between Edmond and Sigrun, tainting the rain crimson around them. Still crouching, Edmond moved a hand toward his scabbard. Saoirse could see the tension in his shoulders; in less than a second, he could draw out his sword, ready to defend his friends. Alistair saw it as well and shifted his stance to a defensive one. "That's enough!" Saoirse yelled, appalled. "Stand down, both of you. I won't have you fight each other."

Before Alistair had time to protest, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him away.

She found a dell nearby, out of earshot, and let go of his arm. His face was half incredulous, half livid as she spoke, trying to quell the edginess in her voice. "Listen to me — It is _not_ blood magic. Not the way you're thinking. Her magic uses blood for healing, but there are no demons involved. It isn't — "

"Really, because that sure looked like fucking blood magic to me," Alistair snapped. They were both rain-soaked by then, but too agitated to care.

"You're not listening! It's not _that_ kind of blood magic. It harms no one." Saoirse's own frustration was boiling over. "And even if it was, you're a Warden, not a Templar. If you think the Order hasn't used blood magic before, you're — "

"I don't care what the Order does. _You_ should know better than this."

Saoirse gaped at him. "Should I?!"

"You absolutely should!" He stepped closer, his amber eyes glowering. "Of all people — have you forgotten what happened at the Tower?"

She took a step forward, gritting her teeth. "Don't. It was my people we found slaughtered up there. Of course I haven't forgotten."

They stared at each other, her anger matching his own. He stood close enough that she could count the freckles on his nose and her instincts screamed at her to _step away_ , but she planted her feet. "It's not blood magic. If you don't trust my judgment, then trust theirs." She gestured towards the path where they'd left Velanna and the others.

Alistair kept his eyes on her, his jaw clenching. Saoirse was still furious, but as his words echoed inside her head, her outrage mingled with something she couldn't name. "I haven't forgotten the tower. But I haven't forgotten Connor either. Or Avernus. Have you?"

Frowning, he opened his mouth, then closed it.

"I've always compromised. I thought you knew that." What she felt was grief, she realized. _I thought you knew who I was once and loved me anyway_.

Alistair's expression was unreadable, but she knew what he must be thinking. She had compromised with Loghain as well.

"I—"

His answer was cut off by the sound of a thousand birds taking flight at once. Drawing out their weapons instinctively, they exchanged a wary glance. There was no danger around them, but in the space above between the trees, Saoirse and Alistair saw a storm of wings and feathers fleeing North in a mindless panic.

Before they could speak, the sky _pulsed_ , a ripple cutting through it as through a placid lake.

Saoirse felt dread gripping her heart. She'd never seen anything like this, but as her mind raced to make sense of what she was seeing, two facts lingered.

The first, that only the most devastatingly powerful magic could have such an effect.

The second, that the date was the 18th of Pluitanis. The day of the Conclave.


	9. Chapter 9

**9:30 Dragon**

Midnight had come and gone, but Alistair was still wide awake when he heard the creak of a door opening, followed by soft footsteps walking away. The inn where they'd been staying, the Spoiled Princess, was cramped enough that the sounds could only come from the room next door. And Alistair thought he knew who his sleepless companion had to be. Quietly, he got dressed in the dark, careful not to wake Sten, inert on the bed next to his.

The moons shone bright above as he stepped out into the cold night. The air felt crisp into his lungs; winter was creeping on them, by then, and there was no sound save for the rustling of the trees, the gentle lapping of waves hitting the shore. Alistair saw Saoirse where he'd expected to find her, huddled by the water, her silhouette dwarfed by Kinloch Hold. He hesitated only a second before walking to her; she should not be alone. Not after the day she'd had.

As he'd come to expect of her, Saoirse had held herself together in the Circle of Magi. That was what they needed, in truth — for their de-facto leader to remain focused and steadfast as they battled abominations, one floor after the next. But he'd seen the despair slipping through her self-control, the anger overcoming her patience. The first time was when she snapped at Greagoir, right after they entered the Tower. The second time was when she pulled Morrigan aside after one snide comment too many, hissing at her between her teeth, before she left the witch to guard Petra and the children. The third time was with Uldred: she had exploded in a string of curses before unleashing a furious torrent of magic at the creature.

In the aftermath, Saoirse might have seemed like herself, if you didn't look too closely. But he had. There was a hollowness to her grey eyes he'd never seen before, as if someone had smothered the bright fire that usually burned there, and she had scarce touched her food during dinner, retiring to her bedroom after a single course. As he stared at the ceiling in his own room, Alistair had wondered if she had trouble sleeping as well. The events of the day kept replaying in his head, the faces of the dead frozen in horror. He hadn't known the mages they found torn apart as they made their way through the Tower. But she had. Every so often, she would stop in front of a robed corpse, her breath hitching, a clench of her jaw. These had been her people.

Thin mist parted around his body as he sat by Saoirse's side on the lakeshore. She didn't look at him: her eyes were focused on the water, her face blank as a sleepwalker's. In the distance, Kinloch Hold stood straight against the starry sky; a single window lit up in the dark, candlelight flickering.

Alistair looked at it in silence for a long moment.

"Before Duncan recruited me, I was training at a monastery in Bournshire. I told you about this, right?" A small nod from her. "I was practically dancing on my way out, I was so glad to go. There was nothing I wanted more than to leave. After nine years in there, I was sure I was a day away from going mad. The chores, the prayers, the silence — all over and done with. I was the happiest man in Ferelden on that day. And yet..."

He pulled out a few blades of grass from the ground, rolling them between two fingers. "And yet, a few weeks after that, I found myself missing small things from the monastery. The porridge they used to make for breakfast during Harvest, the sound of people singing in the Chantry. The smell of the soap they used on uniforms. It felt silly — it still does, to tell you the truth. But even though I hated it, the monastery had become my home. People are like that, I think, trying to find something like a home wherever they are, whether they hate it or not. " Alistair turned his face towards her; she sat still, a slight frown on her brow. Her eyes hadn't moved from the lake.

"I'm sorry you had to see this place like this. I really am," he said.

Her frown deepened, and he saw her swallow hard before he looked away. There was a long silence before he heard her voice.

"When the templars brought me to the Tower, all I wanted was to get to the highest window and throw myself in the lake. I didn't want to live there. I'd rather not live at all, I thought."

Alistair winced, thinking of what Morrigan said in the apprentice quarters. _I would have flung myself from the top of this tower years ago._

"How old were you?"

"Eleven." Saoirse blew out a breath, a puff of white air lingering. "Most of the windows can't be opened, but I saw one I could fit through on the top floor, during an astronomy lesson. All I had to do was to wait for the right time and sneak back in. But Gilas — he knew what I was planning to do, I don't know how. He told me that whether I jumped or not, the Tower would be the last place I'd see before I died, so why not make the most of it?" She choked out a laugh. "He was barely a year older than me, but he was the most pragmatic apprentice you'd ever meet. He said I could make something out of myself, even in the Tower."

A gust of wind rippled over the water as Alistair recalled the mages they'd found alive. None of them were named Gilas.

"So I tried. I really tried. I was a good student, I never got into trouble, I did as I was told, always. Even after Mina disappeared. Even after— " Her voice wavered. "Even after they made Gilas a Tranquil and sent him to Jainen. I did _nothing_. But then Jowan came to me, and I couldn't wait to help him escape. Because deep down, I never stopped hating the Circle. Ever. Part of me wanted to see it burn down to the ground."

Saoirse set her bottom lip between her teeth. " But I— I didn't want _this_ ," she stammered.

She hugged her knees closer, a shiver running down her spine. Alistair pulled his knitted sweater over his head without a second thought, setting it over her shoulders despite her strangled noises of protest. His flannel undershirt was far from enough in these temperatures, but he couldn't care less.

Saoirse tore her eyes away from the lake, at last. Her face was all scrunched up, silver eyes wet with tears, and once again Alistair was struck by how young she looked. In that instant, he could picture the child she'd been when the templars dragged her to Kinloch Hold.

"It was a bad place, but it was my home. It was their home. Those mages, those apprentices — it was their home. And Graegoir just _locked them in there_." A sob wracked her body. "That girl we found right outside the doors — her name was Neria. She was only sixteen. And Eadric, and Bree, and Gabriel...Who's going to tell their families what happened to them? The Templars were supposed to keep them safe — who's going to tell them that they were all left to die?"

She was crying in earnest then, hiding her face behind her hands. Without a word, Alistair put an arm around her, pulling her close. He held her there, her hair tickling his nose until her shoulders stopped shaking.

"I'm sorry," Saoirse mumbled after a while. "I don't know what came over me."

"There's no need to apologize. And you did all you could, Saoirse. You saved Kinnon, and Petra, and the others. That's no small feat."

Wiping her face, she rose up against him. "But what if… What if we'd gotten there sooner? We could have…"

Alistair shook his head. "We got here as fast as we could. And anyway, you couldn't have known any of this was happening."

Saoirse pursed her lips, dragging her sleeve across her blotchy cheeks. "Perhaps you're right."

Snuffling, she got to her feet, her warmth disappearing from his side. "We should get back inside. It's bloody cold out here," she muttered, handing him back his sweater.

They walked back in silence. Tiredness was finally taking over Alistair's body, and he thought he might actually get a few hours of sleep before morning came. He was reaching for his bedroom door when he heard Saoirse whisper.

"Thank you."

He blinked at her as she stood by her door, her cheeks flushed in the candlelight; that image of Saoirse, her small, flustered smile, her mussed up hair, would stay with him for years. Much later, he'd realize that this was the night his crush turned into something more.

In truth, he had started falling for her ever since they met in Ostagar, for the Saoirse that she let the world see: a beautiful, clever, steadfast young woman, dignified as a queen. But as they sat together by the lakeshore, he'd caught a glimpse of her real self, held her in his arms, and _something_ had nestled itself somewhere in his heart, never to disappear.

******

They were on their way to Redcliffe when the dreams came again. Saoirse couldn't pinpoint what made them happen, or if there was a logic to their occurrence; she'd been half-dead the first time, but now they seemed to appear at random. And they were never quite the same.

Waking up in a cold sweat, she grabbed her journal, writing down what she'd seen before the memories faded away. It felt ridiculous — the kind of idiosyncratic behavior she'd once scoffed at, thinking herself too sensible for such things. Yet she couldn't forget her vision of the Tower, split in half: she'd dreamed of it before even hearing of the Circle's trouble. Perhaps it was a coincidence, brought on by stress and anxiety. Perhaps it wasn't.

Summoning a faint light within her tent, she wrote down:

_City rotting from the inside, thick walls (Fereldan?) — some kind of vermin eating at it?_

_Two-headed man entering Chantry, large one, high ceiling_

_Elf stepping into a window — could be a mirror or a doorway of some sort_

_Young man, light brown hair, noble clothing, at a feast table, something moving his limbs, like a puppeteer behind him_

_Mother at a funeral. Can't see her face. Can't see who's dead. Tall — Father? Brennan or Ronan?_

From the shape of his body, the dead man appeared to be an adult, but Ronan would have been eighteen by then, Brennan sixteen, and tallness ran in their family. That last dream, the funeral, was the most constant and the most frustrating, vanishing each time before she could get a better glimpse.

Saoirse slid the journal back in her satchel. As she rummaged through the bag, her fingers felt the embossed leather of the black tome she'd taken from Irving's office. Stolen, in truth, though she couldn't force herself to care. The grimoire was written in a language she couldn't read, but if it was valuable enough to keep from the library, she might find a use for it. It felt more tangible as a project than writing down her dreams in the hope that they might mean something more than "the crushing weight of your responsibilities is driving you madder than a box of frogs." And it felt better than thinking about what had happened in the Tower. _Anything but that._

Forcing the memories out of her mind, Saoirse stretched out her limbs, each hitting a different corner of her tent. Finn snored, nestled at her side, in no hurry to wake up; she disentangled herself from her blanket without disturbing her mabari and slipped out. Some cold water would do her good.

Around Saoirse, the camp was quiet; the sky was pale, but the sun hadn't yet risen. The spot they'd found was thankfully sheltered from the wind, thick trees surrounding them, and a shallow stream ran close by. Wrapping a shawl around her neck, she made her way towards the water before spotting a woman in black, bending down at the edge — Morrigan. She only hesitated an instant before walking up to her. They hadn't spoken since the Tower. _That's enough_ , Saoirse had seethed, her fury bubbling over. _You know nothing of this place. Nothing._ Morrigan had shrugged in response, her own resentment hidden under a thick veneer of aloofness. The silence between them had been frosty since then, but neither of them could afford to hold such grudges. Better to clear the air now that the two of them were alone.

"I'm not going to apologize," Saoirse said, louder than she'd intended, and Morrigan shot her a quizzical look.

"Indeed?"

"No. I meant what I said. I've told you, back then, that I'd prefer it if you spoke your mind, but there is a time and place for such things. Speaking of the mages like this, to their faces, was cruel. Pointlessly so."

Raising an arched brow, Morrigan pressed her lips together but said nothing.

"Still, I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. It won't happen again." Saoirse meant it. She'd let the events in the Tower affect her too strongly — Maker, she had even cried on Alistair's shoulder. The memory sprang into her mind, far too vivid, and she felt her cheeks heat up. _It won't happen again._

"There's no need for such talk, truly," Morrigan said with a dismissive wave. "I've had far worse things said to me."

Saoirse didn't doubt it, considering how Flemeth spoke to her daughter. Crouching down by the stream, she plunged her hands in the water, splashing some on her face. It felt freezing, too cold to bear for more than a few seconds. Looking down, she saw her spindly fingers turning blue at the nails. "I can't believe I used to swim in the sea in the middle of Umbralis," Saoirse groaned. "Are children impervious to the cold?"

"They are not," Morrigan chuckled. "Perhaps you were using magic to keep you warm back then, without recognizing it as such. 'Tis common practice amongst apostates," she added, pointing to her own clothes, her pale skin peeking through.

"Huh." Saoirse made a mental note to try it later — a low flame spell, held below the skin. The Circle would have disapproved. Not that it mattered any longer.

"Did you find anything of interest in the Tower? I suppose no one could object if you took a few things for yourself. A small price to pay for your _plentiful_ services."

"I did," Saoirse said. "Some potions, equipment, and a couple of staves. You're welcome to try them, see if they're a good fit."

"I shall, thank you. Better for such things to be of use, instead of collecting dust in a forgotten closet." Morrigan tilted her head to the side, her expression carefully blank — Saoirse had smoothed out her own often enough to recognize that look. "I have a thought, actually. We have an opportunity that I believe we should take advantage of."

"Oh?"

"My mother was once divested of a particular grimoire by a most annoying templar hunter. It occurred long before I was born, but even today Flemeth speaks of the loss with great rage. And with the Circle of Magi in such disarray, it occurs to me that this might be the perfect time to recover the tome from their possession, for surely it ended up in their hands."

"What would you want with this grimoire, exactly?" Saoirse asked, feigning detachment.

Morrigan shrugged. "'Tis a book of spells, of the sort that Flemeth has dabbled with throughout her long life. Not the sort of thing that would benefit a mage such as yourself, perhaps, for you were taught… a different path. I, however, was taught by my mother."

"Very well. If we go back to the Tower, I'll look for it."

"Good. I am most interested to see its contents, should it be located. The grimoire is leather-bound and adorned with the symbol of a leafless tree, should you come across it. If not, however, then I shall simply put it out of my mind."

Saoirse watched her walk back to the tents, thinking of the peculiar grimoire hidden in her satchel. It had to be Flemeth's. Wiping her wet hands on her breeches, she wondered what Morrigan wasn't telling her. She also wondered, briefly, why her own first instinct had been to lie to her companion. Though that side of her personality had served her well enough in the Circle, it still unsettled her, hoarding secrets, delivering half-truths with a straight face. There was little time for introspection during a Blight, however.

The grimoire would have to go to Morrigan at some point, of course — Saoirse liked her, and there was no reason to withhold it from her forever. But if she had learned anything since her conscription, it was that she knew too little about magic. The Circle kept its knowledge locked up, yet for all its carefulness, it almost fell, while apostate magic had saved her life and hidden her from the horde. If unconventional sources could help Saoirse in her mission, she had to learn from them: the grimoire's mysteries would not slip from her fingers, she decided. And if she couldn't understand its contents, she had enough vellum in her pack to make copies of its pages.

******

Leliana woke up soon after, joining Saoirse around the dwindling campfire for breakfast, followed by Sten. Scooping a bowl of gruel from the pot, the qunari focused his unblinking gaze on Leliana, who had been humming softly.

"You sing a great deal."

"Yes, I do. Music lifts my spirit. Would you like me to stop?" Leliana asked.

"I didn't say that. Was that part of your Chant?"

She laughed heartily. "No! It was a ballad about a highwayman and the tavern girl who loved him. Could you not tell?"

"All your language sounds the same to me. I thought you were singing of vegetables, actually," Sten said, walking away.

"He has the soul of an artist, no?"

"Perhaps he does." Saoirse considered the towering warrior as he started to pack his things. "He's not what I expected of a Qunari. Though I know too little of his people to expect much, I suppose."

The redhead looked at her with a faint smile. "It is a rare thing to find someone who is exactly what they appear to be. Ah, Alistair is awake. Should I go rouse Wynne?"

"That would be great. We need to be on our way soon. Thank you, Leliana," she smiled, before adding, "a ballad about turnips sounds like a lovely way to wake up."

Leliana grinned as she got to her feet. "I shall keep that in mind."

"Who's singing about turnips?" Alistair asked after a yawn, settling by Saoirse's side.

"All of us, according to Sten."

He chuckled at that, filling up his bowl. "Sounds like something he'd say."

Saoirse glanced at him as he ate. His light hair was sleep-tousled, and she had the absurd impulse to reach for him and smooth out the stubborn tufts.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," she said, bewildered by her own brain. "Just thinking. We'll be in Redcliffe soon, and we'll have to resupply there. We're getting low on provisions."

"Good call. Can't say I'd hate eating something that's not cold gruel, for a change."

"Has it gone cold?"

"It's fine, it's my fault for waking up late anyway," Alistair shrugged.

Saoirse paused, thinking of him sitting by her side by the lake, lending her his warmth. Her cheeks heated a bit at the memory, yet the shame didn't sting. It was a new kind of embarrassment, awkward and exciting, and she didn't quite know what to do with it. "Can I try something?" she asked, extending a hand.

Intrigued, he handed her his bowl, a curious smile on his lips. She focused her magic on her fingers around the dish, like a fire spell without a release, careful not to burn anything. After a few seconds, Saoirse saw steam rise from the gruel, and she felt a corner of her mouth lifting.

"Here, all done."

"I — thank you!" Feeling around the bowl, he gave her a wide grin. "Nifty little spell you've got there."

"It's nothing," she said, very pleased with herself. "Can you tell me a little more about Redcliffe? The faster we find Arl Eamon, the better."

"Of course. It's a small town, really, but it's… oddly put together. Whoever first settled it might have been a bit drunk, if you ask me."

As Alistair told her of Redcliffe's many attractions, Saoirse couldn't help but notice how her shoulders had relaxed, how she hadn't cared to control her facial expressions. Something about him made her feel at ease. _It doesn't mean anything_ , she thought. He made everyone feel at ease, save for Morrigan. That was just the kind of person he was: kind, sincere, amiable — anyone could see that. She was just being observant. Nothing more.


	10. Chapter 10

**9:41 Dragon**

For the briefest instant, the forest was silent as the grave, and neither Saoirse nor Alistair moved, staring at the now-quiet skies as rain pelted down on their faces. Then she bolted back towards the road without a word. After a last glance up, he followed after her.

When they found the other Wardens, Sigrun was on her feet, pale but surprisingly steady, Velanna's arm around her shoulder. Standing behind them, Edmond had gathered the horses. Holding the bridles in one broad hand, his eyes darted from Alistair to his commander, as nervous as the twitching steeds.

"Sig, can you ride?" Saoirse said, her voice sharp.

"Yeah, I can — Saoirse, what _was_ that thing in the sky? I've never seen anything like that…"

"I don't know." Her face looked carved out of marble; Alistair swore he could see the cogs of her mind turning, lightning-fast. "But I think something happened South."

Jerking her chin towards their dead assailants, she asked: "Anything?"

Velanna shook her head. "Just money. Nothing to identify them."

Saoirse whistled loudly, and Finn ran out of the trees, barking twice. The coast was clear.

"Right. Let's go, then. The wolves can have them."

As she mounted her horse, Alistair hesitated — Velanna was staring daggers at him, Edmond wary at her back. The silent exchange didn't go unnoticed.

"Maker's breath," Saoirse hissed. "I won't have you fight each other like common sellswords. If you think you can't possibly put up with one another, feel free to ride back to Weisshaupt. If not, then get on your bloody horses."

Velanna opened her mouth to protest when Saoirse added " _that's an order_ ," unflinching. There would be no discussion. Staring at the ground, Edmond handed Alistair his bridle.

Alistair felt the wash of heat coursing through his body fade away as they rode on in the frozen rain. Between the attack, Velanna's magic, his argument with Saoirse, and whatever weird phenomenon had interrupted them, his heart had been racing. And not just because of combat, or because of his anger. As he stood toe to toe with Saoirse under the trees, the two of them yelling at each other, he had looked down at her rain-soaked face, so close, and his irritation had shifted. For a moment, all he wanted to do was to lean down and kiss her, hard. To take her bottom lip between his teeth. The brief, primal impulse had been strong enough to leave him speechless.

The memory of his desire made his fingers clench around his saddle. How was it that Saoirse could still affect him so much, _he_ of all people? _What are you doing_ , he thought, not for the first time. He wondered, dimly, if he should try to keep his distance from her, but the only way to do so would have been to turn his horse around. That, he couldn't do; Alistair had to see the mission through. It was too late to turn back.

++++++

"I suppose we should talk."

Alistair almost dropped the bundle of firewood he carried — he had thought himself alone, and the past two days of travel had been so quiet that hearing Velanna's voice was more startling than it should have been. That evening, as they made camp, you could hear a pin drop; as Saoirse's head bent over letters and books, Edmond brushed the horses for what seemed like the hundredth time, and Sigrun chopped potatoes with far more attention than required. The fire hadn't really needed kindling, but Alistair had to step away lest he started screaming, like he once did at the monastery when the silence got too thick.

"Pardon?"

Velanna rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Just so that you're aware, I do not have to explain myself to you. Or to anyone, really. But Sigrun _has_ insisted. She said it was important for you to know that you're not traveling with a pack of raving blood mages, or whatever it is you think I am."

Uneasy, Alistair set the kindling down at his feet. When Velanna cast her spell on Sigrun and Edmond, when the rain turned red around them, he had lost it. He'd seen too many fall victim to blood magic in his life, as a templar, a Warden, a wanderer. In a flash, fear and anger had taken over. While he didn't think he had been ín the wrong, he wasn't too proud of his reaction.

"Alright. If it wasn't blood magic, what was it?"

She tutted. "It _is_ blood magic, in a sense. It uses blood, or life-energy, as a source. But before you start foaming at the mouth again, there are no demons involved. One person gives their blood freely to help another heal. In essence, it makes healing quicker and more efficient."

Alistair had noticed how quickly Sigrun was on her feet. For wounds as severe as hers, a healing left the injured weakened, sometimes for hours or longer.

"How is it more efficient?"

"A regular healing spell will knit your body back together, so to speak. So will healing potions. But they can't create what's not there. If you've lost a lot of blood or flesh, you'll live, but you'll need time to recuperate. My magic is better," she said, halfway between a brag and a statement.

Noticing his frown, she continued. "Back there, Edmond fed some of his blood to my magic, so I could give it to Sigrun. It helped to close the wound, and it replaced some of the blood she lost."

"But that's…" Alistair paused. That's impossible, he wanted to say, yet he had witnessed it all the same. "That's unlike any magic I've ever heard of."

"I didn't know you were _such_ a scholar of magic," Velanna scoffed, then seemed to catch herself. "... It _is_ an uncommon type of magic. Forgotten, in fact. Saoirse found an ancient elvish grimoire, years ago — she didn't even know what it was, but she kept it. And I was able to translate it."

Saoirse's book-hoarding tendencies hadn't dissipated, then. "How ancient?"

"I'm not sure. It was a copy. The original went to a witch of her acquaintance," she said, somehow annoyed. "Wherever it came from, it has served us well. You cannot rest, down in the deep roads, not even after getting a sword through your back."

Velanna looked away, her expression suddenly strained, and Alistair wondered which one of them had been hurt in that particular way.

"It's not perfect, however. Depending on how much we use, the giver can be a little weakened afterwards, and whatever is in their blood will be passed on to the injured. Which is why we only use this magic between ourselves. The taint… complicates things, otherwise."

"I see." It made sense, in a way, though it still made him uneasy. "I think I understand."

Her nose crinkled. "I'm _so_ pleased you do."

Alistair considered the elf as she walked away in a huff. _She must really love Sigrun, to come to me like this_ , he thought. The experience had looked as pleasant for her as a trip to the Abyss.

He couldn't help but smile as he yelled "Thank you, Velanna!" and watched as her shoulders stiffened. She reminded him of a witch he once knew.

******

In the three days that followed whatever had distorted the sky, Saoirse found out little but rumors from each village they'd passed. One town crier claimed it had been a dragon attack over the Waking Sea, while the innkeeper who had rented tonight's lodgings said he heard of a volcano awaking in Orlais. A preacher had ranted about the Maker shouting down on the world a few hours prior, as they passed through Walefeld's main square. Nothing certain. What it meant was that the phenomenon had happened South, as she feared, and too far for real news to have yet reached Nevarra.

Desperate for intel, she'd send letter after letter to her contacts throughout Southern Thedas and pored over every history book she'd brought for references to phenomena observed across the continent. They were few, and no description matched what they had seen. Not that she was very efficient in her research: her mind was clouded with worry, every waking minute. Leliana had been at the Conclave. What if she —

Someone knocked on her door. Pressing her palms to her eyes, strained by reading in the candlelight, Saoirse got up from her bed. She glanced at Finn, who hadn't stirred; whoever her visitor was, they were no threat. Perhaps it was Velanna, as she liked to share herbal tea with her after supper. But as she opened her door, instead of her friend's tattooed face, she found herself facing a broad chest clad in a blue tunic, golden skin peeking out at the collar.

"Oh."

"Hi. Do you have a minute?" Alistair stood in the doorway, and Saoirse briefly froze. She should have expected it — since their argument, she had turned all her focus towards the explosion, but she knew something had happened within her team. The night before, the tension around their camp suddenly evaporated. After coming back from the woods, Alistair had talked to Edmond, too far for her to overhear, but she'd noticed the warrior's shoulders relaxing, the small smile on his face afterwards. Even earlier that evening, during dinner, Sigrun and Alistair had chatted like old friends, Velanna chiming in from time to time.

Saoirse had thought, then, that he might also want to clear the air with her. It was one thing to think it, however, and a different one to see him standing there, ready to do just that.

"Of course. Please, come in," she said, moving aside. Her room felt suddenly very small. Between the narrow bed, the washbasin, and Finn, asleep on the rug, they couldn't stand farther than a few feet apart. He glanced at her bedspread, covered in papers and open books.

"Busy?"

"No, no. I've just been… I'm trying to find a reference to something like we saw ever happening before. I figured it would be noteworthy enough for a mention in history books, but no luck so far."

A slight frown appeared on his brow. "If you had to guess, what would you say that was?" He asked, his eyes poring over her research.

"You've heard about the Conclave, I assume?" He nodded. "It was supposed to happen on that day."

Alistair's eyes were on her now, as realization dawned on his face. "You think..."

"I can't think of anything else. A lot of people didn't want the Conclave to succeed; I think what we saw was the shockwave that followed an explosion of some sort." Saoirse had spent the last few sleepless nights racking her brain for another explanation, but none came. "Possibly caused by magic."

He watched her in silence for a few seconds, his own worry showing. "Maker, I hope you're wrong."

"So do I. Leliana was supposed to be there, with the Divine." She felt a knot in her throat as she spoke. "It's killing me that I can't know whether she's safe or not."

"Saoirse…" For a heartbeat, Alistair looked as if he was going to step closer. Instead, he said: "I'm sure Leliana's fine. She's the most resourceful person I've ever met."

"I hope _you_ 're right." She blew out a breath. "Did you need something"?"

"Yes. I think we need to talk, you and I. About what happened on the road."

Instinctively, she went to cross her arms, then forced herself to keep them at her sides. "What of it?"

The ghost of a smile played around Alistair's lips, as her wariness amused him. "Velanna and I talked, actually. She told me about her magic, how it works. Although I suspect she gave me a simplified version of her technique."

"I see."

"Right." He rubbed his chin, fingers scratching against a thin layer of stubble, darker than his blond hair. "Well, I'm not entirely comfortable with that spell, but I won't make a fuss about it next time."

"Good. Glad to hear it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that it? Glad to hear it, let's move on, should we talk about the weather instead?"

"I don't know what you expect me to say," she bristled. "I tried to explain it to you then, but you were not listening to me. Should I apologize for not letting you interrupt the spell that healed Sigrun?"

Alistair sighed. "That's not what I'm saying at all, Saoirse. I know I… could have reacted better. I apologize for that. But I've seen too much of blood magic not to be phased when I see something like that. Considering how Velanna's spell looks, I'd say a bit of panic was justified. You can understand that, right?"

His voice was entirely too calm for her to stay mad at him. Which was a shame, really — she'd rather feel angry than awkward. Or troubled.

"I can understand that, yes."

"Good. I know how important this mission is. I won't jeopardize our chances, but I'll speak my mind if it's important. You can't expect me to just follow you blindly."

Saoirse couldn't help but frown. "Did I ever imply that you should?"

"No, never. On the contrary. But back then, I thought my opinion didn't matter much, so I might as well keep it for myself." His amber eyes didn't leave her. "I'm not the same man I used to be."

That much was true. She looked at Alistair's serious face, all sharp lines in the dim light, so alike the boy she once knew yet so different. They'd been _children_ , then, the two of them. Not anymore. She couldn't walk on eggshells around him forever.

"Alright, then. I'll try to keep an open mind as well. But I'm not the woman I used to be either, Alistair. I am your commander, even if I can't force you to trust me. This mission, as well as all of you, are under my responsibility."

He nodded. "I know. And just so you know, I do trust your judgment."

Noticing the dubious expression on her face, he insisted: "I do. Whatever happened between us… Nothing I've heard from you as a leader would make me doubt you. Even ten years ago, I knew you always thought things through before acting."

 _Is he alluding to the Landsmeet?_ Unwilling to read more into it, she bowed her head.

"Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate it."

He was turning to leave when she reached forward on instinct, as if to grab his arm, before jerking back, earning a quizzical look from him.

"There's something else I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I'll tell the rest of the team tomorrow morning, but you should know first." She clasped her hands behind her back, reluctant to fidget in front of him. "When we'll be splitting in Cumberland, you and I will be the ones going to Kirkwall. The others will scout ahead in Orlais. You can't be seen there before we know more about what's going on, and I'm best suited to search Corypheus' prison."

Alistair blinked at her in surprise.

"That is, unless you can think of a better solution — I'm open to suggestions," Saoirse sighed. "I know it's not the most comfortable arrangement."

"No, no, it's fine, I just..." He seemed at a loss, though she couldn't quite read his expression. After a beat, he extended a hand.

"Partners, then?"

A wave of relief washed over her; the conversation had gone far better than she'd expected. But then again, Alistair _did_ always have the habit of surprising her. With a slight smile, she took his hand, his calloused fingers warm against hers.

"Partners."

As he left the room, patting Finn's sleeping head on his way out, Saoirse could feel her skin tingling where they had touched. _Let's try to avoid touching him, shall we_ , she thought. Sigrun often teased her for her ability to suppress her emotions, once comparing her to a "golem, but with way nicer hair", but it was bound to prove useful when dealing with Alistair.

******

They reached Cumberland on a windy, gray afternoon, as Pluitanis came to a close. By then, news of the Conclave had reached North, and the city was bustling with rumors about the mysterious woman who survived the catastrophe. As the rest of her team made their way to a tavern by the harbor, Saoirse walked to a courier's storefront in the Antivan quarter, one of her contacts in town. Tucked behind a sculptor's garden, the shop was empty, save for a surly young woman dusting shelves in a corner.

"Any messages for Rhea?" Saoirse asked, using one of her usual aliases — the name of her oldest friend, back in her village.

The woman set down her duster with an exaggerated sigh and went to rummage behind the counter, producing a small pile of letters. Even at a brief glance, Saoirse recognized Leliana's handwriting on one envelope, and she felt her heart jump. Tossing a silver at the shopkeep, she ran outside; it took her a minute to find a secluded spot, away from prying eyes, and another to steady her shaking hands and break the letter's seal.

_My dearest Saoirse,_

_Thank you for your letter, my friend. I am unharmed, although I cannot say the same for many others._

Saoirse exhaled, two weeks of tension escaping her body at once. _She's alive._

The letter, written in code, gave some details about what happened in Haven since the explosion. This newfangled "Inquisition" seemed off to a promising start, though Leliana's tone remained somber. Saoirse's heart ached for her friend: she knew how much the Divine meant for her. The depth of her grief had to be immense. Had Saoirse not been on a mission of vital importance, she would have dropped everything, ran to Leliana, and remained by her side as long as necessary. Had she been a low-ranking Warden, she could have been there for her. _In another life_ , she thought, a little hollow, as she folded the letter into her belt pouch and walked towards the harbor.

Sigrun, Edmond, Velanna, and Alistair were gathered around a table at Caspar's Candle when she found them. Bustling with activity as sailors and merchants mingled with travelers in town for upcoming tournaments, the tavern was to be their last stop before they went their own ways. As she went to join them, Saoirse paused, watching them from across the room. In the golden light of sunset, the Wardens looked at ease and happy, laughing together, seemingly without a care.

A twinge of guilt nagged at her: that peace was to come to an end. On her orders, they would be sent into danger. The feeling wasn't new. Velanna had once told her that they'd all be dead without her — herself slain by an angry mob of humans, Sigrun alone in the deep roads, and Edmond executed on a misunderstanding. Even so, the guilt lingered. Logic seldom worked on feelings.

Plastering a smile on her face as Sigrun spotted her and waved, Saoirse found a seat by Edmond's side.

"So?" Alistair asked as she sat down, warming his hands on a mug of spiced tea. "Any news?"

She nodded, tracing a faint glyph of silence under the table. With her spell set, their voices would sound faint and inarticulate to strangers. No one seemed to be eavesdropping, but prudence was still warranted; the ones that had attacked them near Attaris might have been paid mercenaries. If so, more could be on their tail.

"Leliana is safe," she said after completing the spell, and he sank back into his chair, whispering a _Thank the Maker_ under his breath. As the five of them shared a dish of fish stew, Saoirse told them the rest of Leliana's message, of the Inquisition, and of their base in Haven.

"Haven, huh. Didn't seem like the most welcoming place in Ferelden last time we visited," Alistair mused.

"To say the least — though from what I've heard, the Cultists left the area years ago. Apparently, the Chantry hired dragon-hunters who got rid of their _Andraste_." Around the table, Saoirse saw three bemused faces looking back at her. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's just…" Sigrun hesitated. "You've _always_ had crazy things happen to you, haven't you? Even before we met."

"She means that it is nice to see _we_ 're not the common denominator," Velanna added, making Edmond chuckle.

Saoirse narrowed her eyes at them in fake-outrage, stifling a smile. "How I'm meant to survive without your wonderful sense of humor is a mystery, but alas, I shall have to cope," she deadpanned as she refilled their plates. She missed them already. "I'll write back to Leliana tonight. If any of you wants me to drop off other letters at dawn, let me know. Sending anything later might reveal too much about our location."

All four of her companions shook their heads, and while Saoirse wasn't surprised by Edmond, Sigrun, or Velanna declining her offer, Alistair's refusal gave her pause. _Shouldn't you write to your wife_ , she wanted to say, disconcerted by his apparent callousness. She knew little of marriage, but surely, it would be reasonable to expect the occasional letter. If only to know one's spouse was still breathing. It wasn't her place to say anything, however. His business was his own.

At the end of a long, pleasant dinner, they all got up to retire to their rooms. To an outsider, it would have looked like an unremarkable night, like they were bound to ride out together the next morning, as it was meant to. Instead, Sigrun, Velanna, and Edmond would slip out of the inn in the night, unseen, and ride west. Saoirse and Alistair were to leave in the morning, dressed as common travelers, and take the eastern road.

The next time the five of them would be reunited would be a month later, in Jader, to share their findings. As they bid each other good night, Saoirse meant " _stay safe."_ She wasn't a religious woman, but she felt like praying for them. As she turned in the hallway to reach her room, Sigrun caught hold of her hand, her marked face suddenly serious.

"Hold on one second." The dwarf looked around them before whispering. "Take care of yourself, alright? I'll be sodding mad if you don't. And you don't want to see me mad."

Squeezing her small hand, Saoirse smiled. "Likewise."

"Good. See you soon, _Salroka._ "

With a last pat on her arm, Sigrun walked away, and Saoirse found herself alone. It had been years since she and her companions were separated, and the last time had been against her will. Her jaw clenched as she pushed the memory away, dank darkness and the smell of corruption lingering at the edge of her mind. _Don't go there. This is different._

She wouldn't be alone. She would have Finn with her, and Alistair, although thinking of the weeks ahead agitated her. However she felt, it was too late to change her mind now.

Partners, he'd said. So they would have to be.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit on 8/14/2020: reworked Saoirse's POV paragraphs

**9:30 Dragon**

_This is a bad idea_ , Alistair thought as he caught up to Saoirse in the castle's courtyard. None of them had slept since they set foot in Redcliffe, the day before, and so much had happened — he was _so_ tired, and waiting before he spoke would be a better course of action. But his words had bubbled within him all evening, as they helped drag out dead bodies to the pyre, as Teagan led them to Eamon's bedside, as they ate dinner with the knights in silence. After supper, a maid had asked them to wait as the servants scrambled to prepare rooms for Alistair, Zevran, Sten, and Saoirse. The elf and the qunari stayed indoors, favoring the fireplace's warmth, but she slipped out, and Alistair only hesitated a second before following after her. For this discussion, they would need to be alone. He might not get another chance to speak before long — and he _had_ to say something.

Leaning against the well, Saoirse seemed lost in thought, staring off in the distance. The courtyard was empty around them, and quiet; the night was cold and Redcliffe was mourning its dead. She startled a little when she noticed him approach. In the light of the full moons, her face was drained of all color, with dark circles around her pale eyes, and she looked so exhausted that Alistair almost lost his resolve. He forced himself to speak before he could.

"I want to talk about what happened today."

She blinked at him, and he could see her confusion turn to wariness — his own feelings must have shown. Crossing her arms under her cloak, she looked away.

"What's on your mind?"

 _Can you really not tell,_ he fumed, thinking of the Arlessa, dead in a puddle of her own blood, of Saoirse's stoic face as Jowan snuffed her life out. "You let lady Isolde sacrifice herself?" Alistair blurted out, his voice echoing in the empty courtyard. "With blood magic? How could you _do_ that?"

"You think I should have killed the little boy instead?" She said after a short silence, a line appearing between her brows.

"No, of course not! But there must have been another way! Something that didn't involve blood magic, of all things. We could have gone back to the Tower of Magi, we could have asked for their help. This is the arl's son we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?"

"He'll see that there were larger things at stake, and that his son still lives." Saoirse snapped, now staring at him in disbelief. "Do you really think we should have left Redcliffe to its fate for days on end, while we went off to fetch the mages? What if the dead rose again in the meantime? Was Lady Isolde's life more important than _the entire village_?"

"But you don't know that it would have happened! There _had_ to be a better way. There had to be. I just… I don't know how you could do it, how you could make that decision. I owe the Arl more than this."

"Well, I did _do it_ — someone had to. And the responsibility that comes with it is mine. Mine only. If Arl Eamon wants to blame anyone for what happened, it will be me. Would you rather be in charge instead? Do _you_ want to be the one making these decisions?"

Her eyes glistened, and he thought he'd heard her voice waver. Alistair's anger crumbled when he realized that he'd hurt her feelings. That was not what he wanted, not at all. What had possessed him to question her decisions, when he'd been too weak-willed to lead himself? _You complete idiot_.

"Saoirse..."

"I honestly did the best I could, Alistair. How am I supposed to…" Her lips set into a hard line as she trailed off.

"You're right. Of course you're right. I'm such an ass. I should know better than to second guess you like this. Aah, why am I getting on your back about it? You did what you had to. It's just… all this death…"

"I feel very tired." She cut him off, her voice flat. "Unless you have anything of importance to add, I'd like to go to bed. I'm sure my room is ready."

Frozen in place, Alistair watched Saoirse turning on her heels to leave, then stopping abruptly after a few steps. Her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder, she strode back to him, pulling a small object out of her pocket and holding it out to him. Confused, Alistair took it. The thing was small and light, wrapped in cloth.

"You should have this."

Before he could say anything, she was walking away, her face blank. As the first snow of the season started falling around him, Alistair unwrapped the object. His mother's amulet shone in the moonlight, pieced back together, looking so much smaller than he'd remembered. His mind whirred.

"This is..."

But as he raised his head to say something, anything, Saoirse was already gone.

******

At first, she could feel nothing but heat, like a forest fire raging inside and outside her body, obliterating everything. Then, one by one, her senses came back to her. A familiar scent, leather and musk. A body, rock-solid, heavy, pressing her against a wall. A whisper in her ear, too low to hear over the drumming of her heartbeat. Her right hand gripping a thick arm. Opening her eyes, Saoirse could discern little over the man's shoulder, just a wooden wall lit by low lamps, a painted door frame; he was tall and wide-shouldered, his arms pinning her in place. A quick spell would free her, but she felt no danger. She hadn't felt this safe in an eternity. Instead, she wanted him closer. 

The man fell silent but didn't move. Saoirse's ragged breathing matched his, her breasts crushed against his chest. The thrumming in her ears finally subsided. She could hear muted sounds in the distance, faint music, but she could focus on nothing but him. As her hand moved up to his wrist, she found naked skin at last, and it felt like he was made of embers. _What is happening to me?_ Saoirse thought, dazed. _Who is this? Where am_ — his teeth grazed the shell of her ear in a deliberate move and she shivered, all thoughts vanishing. Her instincts taking over, she shifted her hips under him, parting her legs enough for him to settle fully between her thighs.

He pulled back, slowly, to look at her face. It was him, of course it was him. He looked like a more handsome, more chiseled version of himself, with longer hair and fuller stubble, as if she got to sculpt him to fit her tastes. But Alistair's amber eyes were the same, pupils blown out in the dim light. Saoirse marveled at his expression, so unlike the boy she knew, yet unmistakable. He wanted her too. His eyes didn't leave hers as his hands dropped from the wall around her, one snaking around her waist, the other resting on her collarbone, his thumb brushing her neck. Alistair moved even closer, blocking everything else. Saoirse's gaze dropped to his lips, slightly swollen, bruised — _I did that_ , she thought, astonished by how much she wanted to do it again. He caught her eyes, and a corner of his mouth lifted as he lowered his head. 

A sharp noise startled them both, something like a plate breaking in the distance. They blinked at each other in stunned silence, a hair's breadth away from each other. He smiled, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as he dipped his head even lower to kiss her jaw. She blew out a breath and angled her neck, baring herself to him. Her body tightened, every inch of skin humming in anticipation. She wanted more of him, _all_ of him.

As if Alistair heard her thoughts, his hand fell from her waist to her thigh, lifting her up against him. His lips moved down to her neck, and Saoirse struggled to hold back a moan as she felt him lick at her. Tightening a hand in his hair, the other bunched up in his tunic, she rocked against him. She felt Alistair breathe out, hot and wet, then the graze of teeth on her skin as his grip on her neck tightened. Even under the ridiculous amount of clothes they were still wearing, she could feel him hardening against her stomach. Saoirse rocked again, sliding a hand under his tunic. His breath hitched again as she ran her nails down his back and he ground himself into her, lifting her leg higher. After a last slow kiss on the soft spot under her ear, he raised his head again, and the sight of him, panting and flushed, sent another jolt through her body. Without breaking his gaze, Saoirse moved her hand down his taut abdomen until she found the laces of his breeches, loosening them with a gust of magic. Alistair swallowed hard, his eyes on her lips, and she raised herself up to kiss him as her hand reached between his legs, coarse hair giving way to velvety, burning skin under her fingertips.

******

Saoirse woke up with a start, sitting up on her bed so fast she almost hurt her neck. The rich furnishings and tapestries of the room around her came into focus, dawn creeping through the window. She was in Redcliffe castle, in one of the guests' quarters, and she was alone.

_Oh no._

The air felt cold against her flaming cheeks. She'd just had a dream, and unlike most of the others, this one was not fading away, far from it. She remembered it all too well. Her mortification growing, she slid a tentative hand between her legs, and grimaced when she realized how wet she was. Saoirse leaned back against her pillows with a strangled groan.

_This cannot be happening._

The dream had been so vivid, so intense — her blush deepened even as she thought of it, and she struggled to bat the images away. _How am I supposed to ever look at Alistair again,_ she thought, remembering how hard he had felt under her fingers, and if one could die of embarrassment, she might have keeled over right there.

Saoirse wasn't a blushing maiden. She'd had sex before, a short affair with a visiting mage the previous year, based less on passion than on curiosity on her part. It had been pleasurable enough, but no part of it had felt like this. In the dream, she'd been desperate for him — Maker's breath, she was seconds away from _mounting_ him then and there, in a hallway where anyone could have caught them in the act. It was unlike her in more ways than one.

This was bad. On so many levels. First, they were comrades-in-arms, the last two Wardens on a mission of extreme importance. Second, Saoirse was effectively his leader. Third, they… Her mind clouded at the memory of his lips on her skin, of his hand squeezing her neck. Jumping out of bed, she ran to the washbasin to splash cold water on her face.

The dream had revealed too much. The previous night, as Alistair and her argued in the courtyard, Saoirse found herself on the verge of tears, for reasons she couldn't quite articulate, and she almost ran away from him lest he saw her weep like a chastised child. _Why am I reacting like this,_ she'd wondered as she reached her rooms, wiping her tears away. Why did his opinion of her matter so — why was it important that he thought well of her? That he believed that an innocent's life, even if he was a mage, was worth sacrificing for? She was just exhausted, she reasoned, unwilling to face reality. Then reality had intruded upon her dreams instead.

In truth, her infatuation with Alistair had been growing, slow but steady, ever since the day they met. Over the last two months, she'd been able to dismiss it: he was kind, and smart, and handsome, and funny, and those were objective facts, nothing more. If she found herself seeking his company, or searching for him, or watching him for no reason, it was simply because he looked familiar, then because they were allies and friends. Except that it wasn't, of course.

"Did you _have_ to go and develop a crush on the first boy who's nice to you, you absolute cretin," she muttered to her reflection in the mirror, skin still flushed and dripping in water.

Saoirse had to nip this in the bud, and quickly, she knew it. Her ability to lead, or even think clearly, would be compromised otherwise — she could not afford that. Their duty was too important, and the consequences of their failure too great.

++++++

As they walked along the eastern road out of Redcliffe, Alistair quickened his step to catch up with Saoirse. He didn't have a chance to talk to her over breakfast, as Teagan and her discussed their next step — they were to travel all the way to Denerim and find a researcher who could, hopefully, point them to the Urn. Saoirse hadn't spared a single glance towards Alistair all morning, and the fact that she was unhappy with him made him miserable. She'd chatted with Sten and Zevran as they made their way out of the village, but her eyes kept gliding over him. He had hurt her, he thought, and he could seldom bear it. _I'm a complete fool whose opinion should be disregarded forever,_ he wanted to tell her. _I won't bother you about such things again._

As he came up to her, a thin layer of snow crunching under his boots, he prayed to Andraste not to put his foot in his mouth again.

"Listen, I wanted to — Well, I wanted to thank you for my mother's amulet. I wonder why it isn't broken, though... Where did you find it?" He stammered.

Saoirse turned to him, and when she spoke, her voice was as neutral as her expression. "I found it in Redcliffe, in the study."

"Oh. The arl's study?"

She nodded.

"Then he must have… found the amulet after I threw it at the wall. And he repaired it and kept it? I don't understand, why would he do that?" Alistair asked, his confusion growing.

"Maybe he meant to give it back to you."

"Maybe he did. He might even have brought it with him one of those times he came to visit me at the monastery… not that I would have given him a chance, as belligerent as I was to him." With a pang of shame, he remembered how he'd behaved when Eamon tried to talk to him back then, what a cranky, antagonistic child he'd been. _Ruining things with foul temper seems to be a recurring theme._ "Thank you. I mean it. I… thought I'd lost this to my own stupidity."

"No need to thank me," she said, shaking her head. "It is yours, after all."

"No, thank you, really. I'll need to talk to him about it if he recovers from — when he recovers, that is. I wish I'd had this a long time ago."

Clutching the amulet in his hand, he shot her a tentative look. "Did you remember me mentioning it? Wow. I'm more used to people not really listening when I go on about things."

She gave him a polite smile, so unlike the one he'd seen that night at lake Calenhad, the ones they'd exchanged in confidence, or the ones she wore after he made her laugh that he felt a lump in his throat.

"I remembered."

"Right. Well, thank you. I also wanted to, erm, apologize again. For yesterday. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

Saoirse tilted her head, still smiling, without an ounce of interest in her grey eyes. "There's no need to apologize."

"Oh. I just thought… I thought I'd hurt your feelings." _Was I wrong?_ Hadn't she looked on the verge of tears?

She let out a little huff of laughter. " _Hurt my feelings?_ Maker's breath — I was exhausted, that's all. I would have jumped into the Abyss if there had been a bed at the bottom."

"But I…"

"It doesn't matter, Alistair. Truly. You're entitled to your opinions, as I am to mine." Saoirse turned her gaze back to the road. "We should focus on our surroundings. Teagan said there might be bandits roaming the area."

Alistair bit his lip as he fell back in line, and Zevran shot him a wry look as he saw his expression.

"Why the long face, my friend? You look like the saddest puppy in all Ferelden. Quite a feat, considering."

"Nothing. None of your business."

Zevran grinned. "Oh, fine. Let us hope that your somber looks will drive the darkspawn away, hmm?"

Alistair grumbled, glancing towards Saoirse as her dark hair fluttered in the cold breeze.

_Blast it._


	12. Chapter 12

**9:41 Dragon**

As Cumberland's gates disappeared behind her, Saoirse took a second to reflect on her current, absurd situation. In the middle of intense turmoil between mages and templars, Wardens found themselves on the brink of disaster, and she was on her way to search an underground prison – the thought of which made her skin crawl – accompanied solely by the man she betrayed a decade earlier. She could hardly pinpoint which aspect of it made her more anxious. But by chance, nature decided to help take her mind off such things by providing a distraction. Mere hours after they left the city behind, the skies opened, and a cold, heavy sheet of rain started falling. The sun wouldn't show its face for the following six days.

Hawke asked to meet them in Andon, a small town northwest of Kirkwall. To remain unseen, they'd chosen to use the Planasene Forest road instead of the coastal highway. Most of their path turned to mud in the inclement weather and offered little in the way of shelter. The spell Saoirse used to keep the tents dry at night left her drained, the horses grew more irritable by the day, and Finn spent most of his time sulking in his saddlebag. Alistair bore the situation well, though there was little to do but keep going. They barely spoke, as they could seldom hear each other as they rode, and alternated watch at night, eating cold rations in the mercifully dry space of their respective tents. At last, on their fifth evening of travel, Alistair rode up to Saoirse's mare, his cloak battered by the rain, and pointed to the mountainside. Squinting, she saw what he was showing her – a cave, large enough to spend the night in.

The cave was wide enough to let the horses take shelter as well, which the poor animals sorely deserved. Once inside, Saoirse and Alistair stood by the entrance, dazed, watching as the rain kept falling on the forest with no sign of respite.

"You think the Maker is trying to send us a message?" Alistair asked, wringing water out of his cloak.

"If he is, a simple letter would have been enough," Saoirse said wryly as she pushed her hood down. "This is just excessive."

She looked him up and down – he was soaked from head to toe, raindrops falling off his long nose, his hair sticking to his forehead. Ignoring the instinct to push the strands away from his face, she focused her magic around them and sent warm air throughout the cave. In less than a minute, they were both noticeably drier, as were the horses, Finn, and their packs.

"Thank you for that." Alistair blinked, patting at his armor. "Should we risk making a fire as well? It's bound to be a cold night."

"I suppose so. If we're being followed, it would have made more sense to attack us when we were setting our tents outside. I'll put a ward by the entrance, just in case."

Moments later, they sat by a small, crackling fire, sharing a loaf of hearty bread purchased in a village earlier that day, with Finn dozing off between them. Saoirse felt her entire body relax, anticipating, at last, a night of real sleep. She'd started to undo her braid when she realized how curly her hair had gotten with the constant humidity, and remade it with a sigh. _That_ would have to wait.

Although most of Saoirse was too tired to care, she was still well aware the two of them were about to sleep in close proximity, with no tents to separate them or companions to distract her. Both of them had changed into more comfortable clothing for the night, him in a dark green doublet, her in a quilted black tunic. They’d disrobed back to back, Saoirse pointedly looking at the wall. Velanna would have laughed at her, she knew – she would have never been this precious about nudity with her teammates, but nothing about her current situation was normal. And while her curiosity nagged her – how did he look like, ten years later? Were his shoulders still freckled? Did he bear new scars over his old ones? What would he think of her own body, marred by a decade of fighting? _Was he also thinking about her, so close by?_ – she chose to glue her gaze to the stone.

"Who do you think they could be?" Alistair asked, stroking the mabari's back absentmindedly. "The ones following us, if they're out there."

Saoirse gritted her teeth as she shifted her posture, a stab of pain rising from her right thigh. "Could be a number of people. Clarel, or whoever she had in Weisshaupt, could be trying to track our moves. Ortraud might be on her side, I suppose," she sighed. "Adder is always trying to find ways to undermine me, or the First, so I can't count him out. And there are nobles in Amaranthine who—"

She noticed Alistair's half-alarmed, half-amused expression. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just… You've made quite a few enemies over the years, haven't you?

"Hmph. I suppose you could say that."

"The Fereldan wardens seem to appreciate you as a leader. What do the other commanders have against you?"

She shot him a surprised glance. "You really don't know?"

He shook his head. "The First said that some disagreed with your decisions at the Landsmeet, but nothing more."

His tone was almost too casual as he mentioned it; Saoirse frowned, but let it slide.

"Well, I've made other unpopular choices over the years, to say the least. Although I expect some of them would have found reasons to dislike me whatever I did. Men like Ortraud aren't keen on seeing a woman as their equal, much less a young one, and a mage to boot."

Sighing, she continued. "My recruitment choices have been a problem, to start. I decided early on that there would be no more forced conscriptions in Ferelden, and I chose to tell my recruits _before_ the Joining that it could be fatal, and that their lives would be shortened if they were to survive. That caused quite a stir."

Alistair gaped at her in disbelief. "You just… told them?"

"Yes. I knew it was bound to be an issue, but I had the authority to do so. Binding someone to this life without being upfront about the consequences was never right, especially when there's no Blight to justify a half-truth. I never selected anyone who wasn't sure that they wanted to join, whatever the cost, so it's never been a dealbreaker. But I also haven't recruited many Wardens myself. And once the First got word of my "radical transparency," to quote her, she sent outside recruiters to Ferelden."

Stretching her legs in front of the fire, Saoirse added: "They also use the fact that I chose to defend Amaranthine instead of returning to Vigil's Keep, when that army of darkspawn stragglers attacked the North, to prove my lack of loyalty towards the Order. And then there's what happened with the Architect."

 _You can shut up now_ , her inner voice warned, _he gets the picture_. But her mouth kept running.

"And the rumor that one of my former recruits blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall, the fact that Killian had to assume my responsibilities when I was away, and that I've been trying to find a cure for the Blight – which some of the old guard consider a sacrilege, mind you… You could say that my tenure as a Commander has been _controversial_."

A quiet moment followed her tirade. She had never tallied the reasons behind her feud with other warden commanders so plainly: the list was longer than she'd remembered. Leliana once told her that she had a talent for making interesting enemies, and her bard friend wasn't wrong often.

Alistair let out a low whistle. "Wow. You've been busy."

"That's one way to put it, yes."

"Is it true? The rumor about your former recruit?"

"I don't know. The Anders I knew would never have done such a thing, but he's changed. Then again, I was never as good a judge of character as I wanted to be."

Another quiet moment, this one populated with memories of Jowan, of Morrigan, of Oghren. She’d misjudged them all, albeit in different ways. Her thoughts were interrupted by Finn whining in his sleep as he rolled over, nestling his head on Saoirse's lap, his paws twitching.

"Poor pup is dreaming of chasing rabbits in the sun, I bet," Alistair said, leaning forward to warm his hands against the fire.

"Probably. He doesn't love traveling in the saddlebag, but he tires more easily these days. He's not a young dog anymore." Saoirse looked at Alistair from the corner of her eyes: it had been a month since they left Weisshaupt, yet he showed no sign of fatigue. "How about you? How are you feeling?"

"Calling me old, are you?" He grinned, and her heart skipped the tiniest beat.

"Seeing as I'm older than you by a few months, I wouldn't risk it, would I?"

"Fair enough," he said, still smiling. "I'm alright. I've been on the road even before I started to hear the Calling. This is nothing new for me, though I could do without the sky falling on us. One more day of this rain and I might start growing fins."

"Hm. You were close to the border with Orlais, right?"

"In the Hinterlands, yes."

Saoirse blew out a breath. "I'm glad Hull found you when she did. The pull must have been quite powerful there."

"The pull?"

"You know, no description I've read of it does it justice. For the song to be so insidious, to obsess us like it did… Our group was near Orlais' northern border when it started, so we felt it strongly," she said, remembering how the taint within her had sung back to the Calling, how Edmond had almost run away in the night to find the Deep Roads. "Riordan once said Wardens would seek out the darkspawn towards the end, but I didn't expect our own bodies to push us to do so."

Alistair stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "What?"

"…What?"

"I don't… I didn't feel it? I only heard the song. It's a bit annoying, like a melody you can't get out of your head, but… I thought this was all the Calling was?"

It was her turn to gape at him.

"It isn't. We don't end up in the Deep Roads just because of tradition: the taint drives us to them, the voices beckon us there, Are you sure you didn't – no, that's a silly question. You'd know if you had felt it," she said, trying to make sense of his words. This shouldn't be possible. Every Warden in Southern Thedas had experienced the full breadth of the Calling, except for him.

Frowning, Alistair shifted his gaze to the fire. "Maybe the area I was in was different."

"Did you talk with Hull about the way you felt?"

"I mean, you've met her – "feelings" are hardly part of her vocabulary. But she…" He fell silent, as if remembering something, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'm sure there's a logical explanation for this."

 _Like what_ , she thought, but kept quiet.

"You should try to sleep, we have a long way to go tomorrow. I'll take the first watch," he added as he got up and started stretching his shoulders, putting an end to the conversation.

"Right," Saoirse said, even as her mind started to cogitate furiously. Over the last decade, she’d studied the Calling at length, as few Wardens were ever allowed to. And she’d never found a reference to one hearing the song without _feeling_ the Calling. Settling on her bedroll, she cast a last glance at Alistair as he started his watch, sitting by the fire. Even in the dim light, he looked as troubled as she was, his brow furrowed deeply. Falling asleep was going to be difficult, but not for the reasons she had predicted.

******

They were two days away from Andon when Finn noticed the ones trailing them. With the rain dwindling the previous night at last, the mabari had been walking alongside Saoirse's horse, stretching his limbs, happy as a clam. Saoirse was glad to let him roam free — early Nubulis in the Free Marches was wet but mild, and Finn deserved to have his fun. But as he darted off the road from time to time to chase after a rabbit or a squirrel, Finn kept his watch, pausing more and more often to sniff the air. And after his last detour, he ran to the front of the group and rolled around twice, looking intently at his mistress.

Saoirse slowed down to let Alistair catch up with her.

"There are two people on our tail, not far behind," she said, keeping her voice low.

He frowned. "Should we try to lose them?"

"There's only so many villages we could be going to. We can't risk it."

Alistair looked around the thick spruces and pines surrounding the path. "How about we get the effect of surprise, for once?"

Before long, their trackers appeared on the path, stopping to examine the prints they'd left in the mud. The two jumped off their mounts to take a closer look at the purposeful mess of horseshoe and footprints the Wardens left behind, seeming to veer off to a small, abandoned path to the left. As they hunched over, Saoirse and Alistair watched from the trees. Finn had led the horses ahead of the way by himself while the two of them hid. With the strangers now in view, Saoirse recognized one of them, a middle-aged woman with grey-blonde hair she'd noticed in Cumberland the morning of their departure, leaning against a lamppost as they left the stables. Though she looked nonchalant, her eyes hadn't left them as they passed by.

This couldn't be a coincidence. Saoirse exchanged a look with Alistair, who'd nocked an arrow on his bow, and nodded.

The fight was swift. The second tracker, a reedy younger man, fell as Alistair's arrow struck him in the chest. Wheeling around, the woman scanned the forest, reaching for her crossbow — too late, as Saoirse stonefist hit her from the other side. As she lay stunned on the ground, Saoirse froze the mud around her, trapping her. The woman cursed under her breath as Alistair stepped out of the forest, sword and shield raised. Saoirse followed suit.

"If you know what's good for you, you won't even try to move an inch," Alistair said.

The woman grunted, darting her eyes to her fallen companion. "I don't even know who you are— "

"Save it." Saoirse cut her off. "I saw you in Cumberland. You've been following us this whole time. Why? Who hired you?"

Alistair took a step closer, turning the other man over with his boot. His blue eyes were already dulled by death, unmoving.

"Listen to me," Saoirse said, her chest tightening at the sight of the corpse — he couldn't have been older than twenty-five or so. _What a waste of life._ "Tell me what I want to know, and I'll let you go free. You know who I am. You know my word is my bond. You don't have to die here."

The woman let out a strangled laugh, turning her head to stare at Saoirse. "I'm dead either way."

Saoirse frowned, her nerves prickling in alarm. "What do you m— "

With a sharp crack, the woman broke out of the ice. _A mage,_ Saoirse realized as she tightened her hands around her staff. _She was melting the ice this entire time._ Alistair shifted his position in a heartbeat, his templar training kicking in, but his attacker was fast. Before he could move to strike, a bloom of fire was gathering between her hands.

There was a deafening boom as her fireball hit the shield Saoirse hastily threw before Alistair, who went flying back a few feet from the shockwave. Their attacker staggered, Saoirse summoned lightning where she stood, putting more magic into it than reasonable. The bolt hit her straight on and she fell, stiff as a board, her heart stopped short. Saoirse spared her a last glance before running towards where Alistair had fallen. Her worries subsided when she saw he was already getting up, wincing.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, rolling his shoulder. "Thanks for the shield."

"I should have known she was a mage. That was careless of me."

"I should have known as well, you know. My templar trainers would have been appalled. Wait, what are you — "

"Stay still. I need to check your back." Standing behind him, pulling his cloak to the side, she slid her hands under his chainmail and splayed her fingers against his shoulder blades, trying to find an injury. He stood statue-still under her touch. "I can't sense anything like this," she hummed. "You should take off your doublet."

There was a long second of silence as she raised her head and met his gaze as he watched her over his shoulder, his golden-brown eyes wide in surprise. _Too close._ Realizing what she was doing, she stepped back in a rush, her hands still warm from his back — his skin had felt hot, even through the fabric.

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine, really. But thank you."

"Right. Good," Saoirse said, mentally trying to stamp out her fluster. "Let's see what we can find on them before we catch up with Finn."

The two trackers held little to identify them, like the mercenaries who attacked them in Nevarra. A bit of money, a map, some rations. Their horses had fled when the fight broke, taking whatever else their owners carried with them. Searching for them in the forest would take too long, as the Wardens had an appointment to keep with Hawke; already, the sun was starting to set, tinging the forest yellow.

As they made their way up the path to find Finn, Saoirse's thoughts kept flickering back to the feel of Alistair's back under her hands. _Can you please focus_ , she scolded herself. Walking behind her, Alistair looked pensive, a small line showing between his brows.

She cleared her throat. "I've thought about what you said the other night. About the Calling,"

Alistair stopped mid-stride and blinked at her. "Hmm?"

"The way it affected you — or, well, didn't affect you — is unusual. More than that, even. I don't think it could be because of your location; there were other Wardens in the area, and none of them reported an ability to resist the whispers."

"But I didn't really resist them, remember? I was going to the Deep Roads when Hull found me."

"Right, but were you going because you thought this was the obligatory next step, or because you felt like they were calling out to you as well?"

Alistair stared at the muddy ground, his frown deepening. "The former, I suppose."

"Like I said, that's more than unusual. It's unheard of."

He gave a noncommittal grunt as he resumed walking.

"At first, I thought something might have happened during your Joining, but that wouldn't make sense either. The blood of the archdemon that was used was the same for my Joining, and I don't see Duncan making a mistake for something that important," Saoirse continued, matching his pace. "But then I remembered — you knew king Maric once traveled through the Deep Roads, right?"

"... Duncan mentioned it, yes,"

"Well, he went underground twice and survived, which is rare for a human, especially not a Warden. What if he somehow developed a resistance to the taint while he was down there, a resistance that would have then passed on to you? That would explain --"

"But this is just speculation, isn't it?" He retorted, raising an eyebrow. "And how could you know if it's actually that rare? Maybe there are plenty of poor sods who go to the Deep Roads when their Calling comes just because that's what tradition demands. I don't know. And you don't know either."

It was her turn to frown, "I _do_ know. I've been studying the taint, and the Calling, for almost a decade now. If I'm "speculating", it's because it's important. I don't understand why you're being so cagey about this."

"Cagey?!" He laughed out loud at that. "Well, pot, I have a kettle I'd like you to meet."

"Excuse me?"

"I think you heard me pretty well."

"Are you still —" Saoirse stopped in her tracks, staring at him. "Is that why you agreed to come with me? To get me to reveal whatever secret you think I'm keeping?"

Alistair sighed deeply, then turned to stare back at her. "I came with you because of the mission, of course. Anything else I get out of it is an added bonus, let's put it this way."

"I told you before. I have no explanation to give you. Nothing that would bring you peace," Saoirse said through gritted teeth.

"I don’t care about peace. I want the truth." His eyes didn't waver. There was no anger on his face, just plain determination.

This was somehow worse than the anger he'd shown in Weisshaupt. She felt something contract inside of her, like long-forgotten scar tissue waking up in a panic. _I can't._ Dropping her gaze, she dug her fingernails into her palms, keeping her expression as neutral as possible.

Alistair shrugged at her silence, a slight smile on his lips. "You know, I’ve waited ten years to hear the truth. I suppose I can wait a bit more. Nothing better to do anyway.”

++++++

Nestled against the eastern ridge of the Vimmark mountains, Andon overlooked the coast for miles on end. In the twilight, Kirkwall's lights glinted in the distance — Alistair thought he could make out the Viscount's Keep at its top. Coming back to the Free Marches wasn't going to be easy, he'd known that from the start. But actually being there, and seeing the city so close, he felt an odd mix of emotions he couldn't quite define.

Taking his eyes off the horizon, he noticed Saoirse stepping out of the stables, Finn trotting ahead. Jumping off the fence he'd perched on, Alistair walked up to her.

"All settled with the horses?"

"Yes."

"Grand." Following her through the quaint streets of the village, he watched Saoirse as she led the way to the inn, expression blank. It had remained so since their "talk" the previous day. Since they left Cumberland, she'd kept a respectful level of physical distance between the two of them, but now that distance had grown almost comical.

"Charming little place, isn't it?" He said, looking at the squat log houses around them.

"Hmm."

"You know, your cousin might have a future as a travel guide, if he's looking to branch out."

"I'll make sure to tell him," she said flatly, speeding up her pace.

Alistair bit his lip to hide a smile. Her curt answers should have been infuriating, considering how their relationship had thawed since they left Weisshaupt, yet he felt giddy. When he told her he still wanted the truth, he'd seen it on her face, plain as day: a short glimpse of fear and guilt, gone in a second, confirming what he already knew: Saoirse was hiding something from him.

If anything, her current attitude confirmed it — she only retreated into her shell like a turtle when she felt actually troubled, or guilty. And sooner or later, he would find out why. She was stubborn, but so was he, and he had annoyed people into doing what he wanted more than once in his life. Plus, needling Saoirse had always been rather fun.

A bell rang above the door as they entered the inn at the edge of town. The main hall was pleasantly warm, with a few patrons chatting around tables, and the smell of bread and firewood filled the air. A young dwarven woman with wiry hair greeted them as they walked up to the counter.

"Welcome to Andon's House!" She said with a warm, toothy grin.

"Thank you. Any messages for Rhea?" Saoirse asked.

As the woman handed her a small envelope, Alistair leaned on the counter, looking around, an idea forming into his head. "Quiet evening, isn't it?"

"You're quite right, ser. Business is always slow during the rainy season. But," the dwarf added cheerfully, "that means we have plenty of rooms available."

"Well, that's just great news for us, then," he said, snaking an arm around Saoirse's waist. "My wife and I could use a nice rest."

He felt her freeze up under his touch. Saoirse blinked at the innkeeper, then plastered a stilted smile on her face. "Indeed."

Stifling a laugh, Alistair beamed at the other woman, who smiled back at him. "Right you are, then — room 6 is free for the night. It's one of our best."

"How lucky are we, my dear?" Alistair grinned at Saoirse, who shot him a furious glance as the innkeeper fetched their key.

She held her tongue until the dwarf closed the door behind them, leaving them alone in their cushy room. As Alistair surveyed the double-bed, the thick rug and the tub, half-concealed behind a woven screen, she stood by the entrance with her arms crossed.

"Are you quite proud of yourself?"

He looked at Saoirse, all stiff irritation, wrapped in her faded black cloak, thought of the grey feral cat he used to feed when he lived in Kirkwall, and felt like laughing again. She seemed about ready to hiss.

"You know, kind of."

"I forgot I was traveling with a professional jester. Thank you for reminding me."

"It's a great cover, isn't it? If we're still being followed, they won't be asking around for a married couple. You should be thanking me." Her expression didn't change. "Relax, you can have the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Seeing as it's your fault we have to share a room, yes, you will. Now get out."

Alistair set his pack down, grateful for the relief — his left shoulder still ached — and raised an eyebrow at her. "Why?"

"We've been on the road for eight days," Saoirse replied coolly. "I think I deserve _some_ privacy."

"Oh, I don't know. It's nice and warm in here. 'Think I'll stick around," he said, pretending to examine the curtains. "Besides, what about _my_ privacy?" He knew he was pushing it, but he couldn't help himself.

She ran a hand over her face, letting out a deep, slow breath. "Fine. Do as you like."

Without skipping a beat, she walked to the tub, undoing her cloak's fastenings and letting it drop. Then, as she stood behind the screen, Alistair saw her overcoat thrown over, followed in short succession by her flannel tunic. His mind ground up to a halt.

"What— "

"I've been dreaming of a bath for over a week, and I'm not going to wait for you to stop fooling around. You can stay or go, I don't care."

Her undershirt flew over the screen as she spoke. Alistair caught a glimpse of skin through the cover, and his next quip died in his throat. His breath catching, he turned away, walking out of the door without a look back.

++++++

Outside the window, the moons were high, but Alistair couldn't fall asleep for the life of him. He kept tossing and turning against the hardwood floor, trying and failing to find a position that wouldn't send waves of pain up his shoulder. His efforts were not as silent as he meant them to be, for an hour in, he heard Saoirse's voice.

"How hilarious are you feeling right now?"

"Pretty hilarious, actually. How's your sleeping companion?"

A small, warm glow lit up the room, radiating from a ball of light in Saoirse's palm. She looked at him from up on the bed, her dark hair sleep-tousled around her face; by her side, sprawled on the covers, Finn snored softly.

"He's great. Sleeping has never been an issue for him."

"Lucky dog." Alistair rose up on his elbows with a sigh. "Can't believe you're letting him sleep up there. You used to be so principled: _he can sleep on my bedroll, but real beds are off-limits_ ," he added in a not-inaccurate rendition of Saoirse's lilting accent.

She scrunched up her nose, but her face softened as she began stroking Finn's ears. Alistair felt like he should avert his eyes, like it was dangerous to even look at her like this, warm and unguarded, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. He didn't want to.

"He gets worried if he can't see me immediately when he wakes up," she said quietly.

"Does he?" Alistair looked at Finn, the same dog he'd seen charging at ogres, drakes, and revenants, and frowned. That behavior seemed unlike him. "... Did something happen?"

Saoirse shot him a wry glance. "Shouldn't you know about such things, _husband_?"

"You're still mad about that — I let you have the bed!"

"I’m sure your wife would find it all very amusing," she muttered.

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "My wife? I’m not married."

"But... Teagan said you were married?"

"No, not for years. We had an Avvar marriage, as she was part of that tribe, and unions like that only span a number of years — there's a whole ritual that determines how many, which I, ah, kind of fumbled through. Keelah and I had two years together, and we decided to part ways at the end of it."

"...Oh. I see."

" Wait, so you thought I was married this entire time?"

"I had no reason to believe otherwise."

"Huh. What about the fact that I didn't talk about my wife? Or try to get in touch with her at any point? You'd think someone would let their spouse know, from time to time, that they're still alive and well."

Her cheeks grew slightly pink. "It is your personal life. What you do or don’t do is your business."

"Is it—" A sharp jab of pain cut him off, his awkward position on the floor worsening things.

Narrowing her eyes at him, Saoirse sighed and shook her head. "It's your shoulder, isn't it? Just come sleep on the bed. Finn can make some room for you."

There was a short silence as her words reached Alistair's brain, his smile widening as they did.

"Hear that, Finn?" Alistair tutted in mock-outrage "She knows I’m wifeless for less than a minute and already she invites me into her bed?"

Even in the dim light, he could tell how red she grew — he could practically _feel_ her cheeks burning, and he knew he was blushing as well, but he couldn't stop grinning.

"That's not — I didn't— " Saoirse stammered, and he started to titter, earning an exasperated look from her in the process. Mumbling under her breath, she snuffed out the light, and he heard her roll over on the mattress.

He was still stifling a laugh when, minutes later, a small object landed on his chest. Her voice rang out in the dark.

"It's a balm. It'll help with the pain. Use it and stop flopping around, you're making too much noise."

It did help, and Alistair dozed off with a smile on his face, the salve's oddly familiar warm, herbal scent filling his senses.

++++++

"Are you sure he’s coming?"

"My cousin is many things, but predictable isn’t one. I don’t think he’d be late for this, however. Pass me the honey, please," Saoirse asked as she finished buttering a scone.

Breakfast was well underway at Andon's House by then, the few other customers scattered around the main hall enjoying copious amounts of tea and pastries. After handing Saoirse the honey, Alistair stretched a little in his seat. He felt more well-rested than he'd had in a while, and Saoirse looked like she felt the same way, her skin rosy in the morning light.

"Well, I wouldn’t mind staying longer too terribly. That butter is amazing," he said, slathering more of it on a piece of toast.

"Enjoyed the floorboards that much, did you?"

As Alistair opened his mouth to tease her back, Saoirse's sleeve rode up, and once again he noticed the scarring on her left arm. It looked like an old burn, stretching farther up than he'd thought. His curiosity got the better of him.

“What happened to—"

"Ah, here he is." Rising from her seat, Saoirse beckoned someone over, and before she could say anything else, a dark-skinned man in an oxblood cloak swept her off in a tight hug, planting a kiss on her cheek before setting her down. " _Maker_ — Garrett, please," she said with a small laugh. "Alistair, this is my cousin Hawke. Hawke, this is Alistair."

As Hawke's blue eyes met his, Alistair could see the moment recognition hit, a wave of dread and embarrassment rising in his chest. This was the same Hawke he met in Kirkwall, all those years ago, Isabella’s friend, the one he’d blathered to in a drunken haze more than once — of course, he was the same Hawke. Alistair, after all, had never been a lucky man.


	13. Chapter 13

**9:31 Dragon**

"But it _is_ interesting, no? That so many of us have this in common." Leliana looked over the campfire at the rest of her traveling companions. "It is also a common thing in tales. The Black Fox was an orphan, as was Jeshavis, or Dane… So am I, and so are you, Zevran, and you, Alistair. Morrigan…"

"Did I give any indication that I wanted to take part in this idiotic prattle, bard?"

Leliana brushed off the insult with ease. "Mmmh, Sten is another matter. His people don't have a concept of family, I think."

She jerked her chin toward the qunari, patrolling around the camp with Finn, as he did every night. They were halfway to Denerim, deep in the Bannorn, and though the horde was far away, they couldn't let their guard down. Danger had many faces, not all of them Darkspawn. Alistair kept glancing over his shoulder into the darkness. A blanket of snow covered the woods around them, muffling all sounds, making their campsite feel at once safer and more vulnerable.

Stretching his neck, he returned his gaze to the fire. Alistair was rarely cold, his body warmer than most by nature, but even underneath layers of clothing, he felt the chill. He cast a brief glance towards Saoirse; he'd noticed how cool her hands felt when she healed him, when their fingers brushed against each other, when she helped him up after a fall. Somehow, he remembered every touch she'd given him. _Isn't she freezing?_ He wondered, watching her thin, pale fingers clutch her quill as she wrote in her journal. Part of him — most of him, really, wanted to go sit by her side, to lend her his cloak, to warm her hands within his. But she'd been different, since Redcliffe. She was still amiable, but there was a new distance between them, and he had no idea how to cross it. He now wondered if the bond they'd shared had only existed in his imagination. Perhaps he wasn't as special to her as she was to him. _And why would you be special to anyone, especially to her_ , he moped, poking at the embers with a stick.

"What about you, Wynne?" Leliana asked.

"It is not a rare thing for people my age to be orphans, child." Wynne chuckled. "But you are right. My memories before the Tower are faint, and I do not remember having a family at all then. The templars told me I was found all alone."

"Bit of a bleak conversation topic, isn't it? How did we go from comparing our favorite types of roasts to this?" Alistair interjected.

"I find it remarkable, not bleak. What I meant is, people who find themselves in situations like ours, on the road, into the unknown, are usually… without anchors. Just like in the songs."

"How poetic. We should all warm each other up, chase the sadness away." Zevran said, his voice hard to hear under the impressive amount of scarves he wore.

"I am not sad. And you don't look too heartbroken either." Leliana shrugged, turning to Saoirse. "What about you, then?"

"What?"

"I don't mean to pry, of course…"

"But you will," Zevran laughed.

"Ha! Perhaps I am prying. It's just… You never mentioned your family at all."

"… I suppose I haven't, have I? Well, I must be the exception to this rule. As far as I know, my parents are alive and well, as are my siblings."

There was a pause around the campfire. Alistair remembered her mentioning something about her parents at some point, but he couldn't hide his surprise. He had thought her silence concealed grief.

"It is different, for mages," Wynne said, seeing Saoirse's troubled expression. "Many of us are not welcome in our own homes, once our powers manifest. It can be a bitter memory."

She shook her head. "Oh, I wasn't… They were never like this. I was lucky in that way. They knew what I was, but they would have kept me home if they could, I think."

"If they could… Can you tell us about them, then? Why did you have to leave? If you don't mind." Leliana added, her voice gentle.

"Oh, I don't mind, but -- " She paused and frowned, looking at a loss for words — a rarity for her. "I've never really talked about this. With anyone. I don't… I don't quite know how to. But I've asked all of you many personal questions, haven't I? It's only fair that I should be open as well."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's fine. It was a long time ago." She cleared her throat. "Let's see... I grew up in the Waking Sea bannorn, off the northwestern coast, on the island of Eidhin. My parents were luthiers. Their marriage was a bit of a scandal, actually. My mother came from a rich Free Marcher family, and she gave up everything to marry my father, who was a commoner, and a poor one at that." Her lips curled up at the thought. "They had me first, then the twins, Mairead and Ronan, then Brennan, then Cillian." Her accent was stronger when she pronounced their names, Alistair noticed.

"My parents were watching out for signs of magic in any of us. There are many mages on my mother's side of the family, and a famous one on my father's side as well — Fionnula the Fair, a seer at court, ages ago. Anyway, my father saw me ignite some kindling with my bare hands when I was five or so. My mother and him told me to hide my powers, and I did. I was good at it. Besides, I never needed to use my magic, not really. Back then, I was a bit of a wild child. I would spend my days jumping off cliffs, or diving in the sea to look for shellfish. That takes skill, not magic. I thought I could stay there forever."

Saoirse was staring at the fire now, lost in thoughts. There was a short silence before she spoke again. "But when I was eleven, Brennan started to show signs too. He would have terrible nightmares, and he had a hard time keeping his magic in. I tried to stay by his side to keep him out of trouble, but sometimes I'd get bored or frustrated and leave him on his own. Never for long, of course. But once was all it took. One day, Brennan wandered off into our neighbor's land. He was only six years old or so, and when the dogs found him, he panicked. I heard barking, a scream, then nothing. When I got to him, there was a circle of dead hounds around him, burned to a crisp. He was hysterical, poor thing — he hadn't meant to hurt them. But he did, and someone saw us hurry away from the field soon after. It didn't take long for the templars to hear about it. They came to our house a few days later. When she saw them approach, my mother…" Saoirse cleared her throat and took a swig of her grog, blinking at the fire.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to…" Leliana said quietly.

"No, I know. I told you, it's fine. Anyway, my mother came to me, and she said that Brennan was too young to be taken away, too fragile. But I wasn't. She said that I could be strong for him, as his older sister. So she told the templars that I was the one they were looking for, and they took me away instead."

Staring at Saoirse across the fire, Alistair's breath caught in his throat. Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were hollow. Her words back on Calenhad's docks echoed in his ears. _I didn't want to live there. I'd rather not live at all, I thought._ Something in his chest tightened as a different memory surged. Alistair had been seventeen years old, a templar-in-training, sent out with a senior templar to "collect" a new apprentice in a village West of Bournshire. The farmers had watched as their only daughter was taken away, their faces drawn. The child, a scrawny wisp of a girl, had been too small to climb on the cart by herself. Alistair had to lift her up while the senior Templar stood to the side, his hand on his sword, prepared to strike the potential apostate down. As the girl sat in the cart, she cast a last look at her home; Alistair had never forgotten her expression. Terror, anger, betrayal, and the slimmest, faintest hope that her parents would change his mind and try to keep her. They hadn't, of course. And now the girl's face was changing, brown eyes turning grey, blond hair turning dark.

As the memory faded and guilt flooded him, Leliana took Saoirse's hand in hers. "That is... awful. I'm so sorry."

"But she was right." Saoirse shook her head. "Brennan needed her more than I did."

"Do you know what happened to him? Your brother?" Wynne asked.

"Last I heard, he was doing well. My mother couldn't be too explicit in her letters, since templars go through them all, but she would have found a way to tell me."

"She must have felt terrible. Did she write to you often?"

"At first, yes. But I never wrote back. At first because I was too angry at her, then because I figured that life would be easier for her if she forgot about me. She only wrote once a year by the time my Harrowing came."

Wynne gave her a small, weary smile. "I do not think a mother can simply forget about her child."

"Probably not, no. Even I wasn't able to let go in the end. I kept all of her letters with me." Saoirse sighed. "Until I left them in my pack in Ostagar, that is. I can only hope a genlock hasn't eaten them by now."

"I don't think they're too fond of paper. Even monsters must have standards, yes?" Zevran said with a grin, and Saoirse smiled back at him.

"Indeed. Ah, don't make that face, Leliana — I've been luckier than most. I got to live out my childhood with my family, knowing I was loved. That's more than many get."

*******

"'Tis quite puzzling."

"What is?"

"I took you for a sensible woman. A bit too sentimental, perhaps, but rational."

Saoirse stared at Morrigan, perplexed. She'd been sitting by the fire, preparing for her watch, when the witch walked up to her. By then, the camp was quiet, everyone setting up for the night in their tents.

"Thank you?"

"I'm not trying to compliment you," Morrigan snapped. "What nonsense — telling me you _love_ your mother, after everything she's done to you?"

A conversation they had weeks prior came back to Saoirse. They'd been talking about Flemeth, and Morrigan had asked about her own mother. "But I do love her, Morrigan. I can't say I forgive her for what happened, but I love her nonetheless."

The witch rolled her eyes, muttering a "ridiculous" under her breath.

"I suppose it might seem ridiculous to you. But you once told me that mothers should teach their daughters how to survive. Mine taught me that sometimes, women must make hard decisions to save their loved ones. Isn't that a valuable lesson?"

Morrigan scoffed and turned away. "You can be certain that if I were ever to have a child of my own, I would burn the Chantry to ashes before they can touch them."

"I don't doubt it for a second," Saoirse said to no one in particular as she watched her walk away

"Saoirse?"

She almost jumped out of her skin. Alistair stood a few paces away, wrapped in his grey winter cloak.

"Isn't your watch later?" She asked, perhaps too warily; her efforts to keep him away had been successful so far, but she didn't want to hurt him.

"It is, it is. I just couldn't sleep. Listen..." He hesitated, and Saoirse watched as snowflakes landed in his hair, white into gold. She buried her hands deep in her pockets, willing the itch to touch him to disappear.

"Since we'll be in Denerim soon, I wonder if we might be able to... look someone up, when we're there."

She paused, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn't. "You have a friend outside the Grey Wardens?"

"No, I'm not talking about a friend, exactly. It's, uh, all this family talk, tonight. It made me think of something." He ran a hand into his hair, shaking off the snow. "The thing is, I have a sister. A half-sister. I told you about my mother, right? She was a servant at Redcliffe Castle, and she had a daughter… Only I never knew about her. I don't think she knew about me, either. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But after I became a Grey Warden, I did some checking and, well, I found out she's still alive. In Denerim."

"That's wonderful news, Alistair," she said, too happy for him to hide it. "Have you contacted her?"

"No. I thought about writing her, but I never did. And then we were called down to Ostagar and I never got the chance. She's the only real family I have left, the only family not also mixed up in the whole royal thing. I've just been thinking that… maybe it's time I went to see her. With the Blight coming and everything, I don't know if I'll ever get another chance to see her. Maybe I can help her, warn her about the danger, I don't know."

"If you want to, we could try."

"Could we? I'd appreciate that." Alistair seemed troubled as he added: "If something happened to her and I never went to see her, I don't know if I could forgive myself. Her name is Goldanna and I think she remarried but still lives just outside the Alienage. If we're in the area, then… well, it's worth a look."

Saoirse nodded, and he was about to go back to his tent when he turned back around, a hesitant look on his face.

"For what it's worth, I also wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about what happened. With your family."

Her cheeks heated as mortification gnawed at her: she was still baffled by how much she'd revealed. "There's no need to be sorry. It wasn't your fault."

"I know, but I was still a Templar. I could have been one of them, the ones who came to your house to take you away. For that, I am sorry. Really."

Saoirse dropped her gaze; he looked disarmingly earnest, as he often did with her, and she didn't know how to handle it anymore. "Thank you."

"Oh, and one last thing." He stepped closer to her and held out something to her. With a quizzical look, she took it from his hand, her fingers brushing against his palm. _Will you please calm down,_ she warned herself. Unfolding the object, Saoirse found a pair of fur-lined gloves, dark blue and sturdy.

"But they're yours —"

"I don't need them. I have my armored gloves, and besides, they're a bit small for me. You'll make better use of them," he said. Alistair raised his eyes from the gloves to her face and gave her a small smile. "I should leave you to it. Good night, Saoirse."

As he left her alone, she clutched the gloves in her hands, warmer than she'd felt in weeks. _So much for nipping this in the bud._

++++++

The daylight bathing the marketplace felt blinding after the dank darkness of Goldanna's home. Saoirse led him away from the crowd, her hand holding his gentle but firm, and Alistair didn't resist. He felt like he'd taken a blow to the head: stunned, dizzy, and a bit numb. As they reached a quieter part of the plaza, she turned around to look at him. Saoirse had looked furious when they left his sister's house, like a storm brewing over the sea, but her face was very different now.

"Alistair…" She said, her voice tinged with worry.

"Well, that was… not what I expected. To put it lightly." He tried to sound light-hearted, but it sounded false, even to his own ears. "I'm sorry I gave her any money at all. This is the family I've been wondering about all my life? That gold-digging harridan? I can't believe it."

His cheeks were burning now, yet the cold breeze that cut through Denerim had nothing to do with it. Alistair wished the ground would swallow him up. But he preferred shame to the sorrow he could feel rising within him, clenching around his heart, his lungs.

"I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn't that what family is supposed to do? I… I feel like a complete fool."

"You're not a fool." She shook her head, her brows drawing together. "She had no right to talk to you like this — none. You deserve better than this."

He let out a dejected chuckle. "Right."

"You do." Saoirse squeezed his hand, and she looked him straight in the eyes, steadfast, unwavering. "You really do, Alistair. I mean it."

And for a moment, he believed her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: I reworked Saoirse's POV paragraphs in Chapter 11 mid-August, in case you missed it.

**9:41 Dragon**

As Saoirse went to enter the apothecary for their last supply run before the long road ahead, Alistair glanced at Hawke. The mage planted his feet: he was not going in with her.

"I won't be long," Saoirse said.

"Oh, do take your time, cousin. The longer I can enjoy civilization, the better. Won't see much of it for a while," Hawke said. "Civilization" was perhaps a strong word for the hamlet, but Vifenal had a certain shabby charm to it, with its sun-bleached buildings and cobblestone streets.

"Right. Alistair, do you need anything?"

Alistair shook his head. "I'm all set."

"Actually, if you could get me a bundle of Felandaris, that'd be great. And some Witherstalk. And a bit of Embrium—"

She raised an eyebrow. "Or you could come in and buy all these things yourself like a grown man, Garrett."

"I'd rather not. I'm not even inside, and the smell is already giving me a headache. So, Witherstalk, Felandaris, and…"

"And Embrium," Saoirse said as she stepped inside with a resigned sigh. She was obviously used to her cousin's antics. Alistair wasn't. He had no clue what to expect of him.

Since their meeting in Andon the day before, they'd only talked in Saoirse's presence, and Hawke had given no indication that he knew Alistair. Instead, after discussing their immediate travel plans — a last stop in Vifenal to get rations for the road, then a week or so of travel to reach the Warden's prison, nestled deep in the Vimmark mountains — Hawke had jumped from chit chat to uproarious anecdotes. But Alistair had seen recognition in the mage's blue eyes, clear as day. It was only a matter of time before one of them acknowledged it. And as Hawke walked up to him, a slight smile on his face, Alistair figured that time had run out.

"It's good to see you looking so well." Hawke looked him up and down approvingly. "I was wondering what had happened to you."

 _Blast it._ "Thank you."

"That friend of yours got you out of Kirkwall, then?"

"... You saw him?"

"I was right there when he found you."

Alistair winced. In his drunken haze, he hadn't realized anyone had seen Teagan and him argue.

"I'm sure Isabella would send her love if she knew I saw you, by the way," Hawke grinned, a dimpled smile showing under his black beard.

 _Blast. It._ "I, ah… Erm, how is she?" Alistair said, his cheeks reddening.

"She's great. As always. You know, she kept going for the tall, blonde type for quite a while, but she never called any of _them_ "a prince in bed." You must have made quite an impression on her."

His blush was reaching the tip of his ears now. "Listen, Hawke…"

"I'm assuming there's a reason you didn't tell my cousin that you knew me." The mage patted him on the arm. "Come now, relax, will you? Whatever rumors you've heard, I'm not actually a demon. At least not today."

Alistair blew out a breath. "Well, that's reassuring." He considered the other man for a moment. Hawke looked as friendly as he remembered, and as mischievous. There was little he could do but trust him, however. "She doesn't know. Saoirse, I mean. She has no idea that I was in Kirkwall back then, or that I was… in that state. I'd rather keep it that way."

"Ah. I see."

"So?"

"I won't say anything, of course." He paused, then added, his tone gentler: "There is nothing you should be ashamed of, my friend. Anyone can fall on hard times, and we find ways to cope, however we can, be it at the bottom of a tankard or down a fighting pit. Or in bad poetry, for the most unfortunate of us. But Saoirse isn't the type of person who'd judge you for this sort of thing. Far from it."

Alistair shook his head. "It's personal."

"Alright. I can't say I know anything about your relationship — though the two of you seemed rather cozy, back in Andon — but if you'll allow me a tidbit of wisdom: the less you hide from each other, the better. A hard-earned lesson," he said, his face oddly serious.

Hawke wasn't wrong, Alistair knew that, and he and Saoirse were growing closer, although _cozy_ seemed an exaggeration. But the thought of her learning about those dark, hopeless years in Kirkwall made him sick with dread. "If she ever has to hear about it, it will be from me. No one else."

"Fine, fine. My lips are sealed. Ah, here she comes — try to look less, say, dreadfully uncomfortable, could you?"

Carrying an armful of cloth bags, Saoirse walked up to them, Finn trotting by her side with a small pouch in his jaws.

"Alright, here is…" She looked from Hawke to Alistair and frowned. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," Hawke said, then seeing her expression, added: "If you have to know, we were talking about my second favorite Warden in Thedas. You've seen Carver not too long ago, right?"

Saoirse narrowed her eyes at her cousin. "Yes. He's with Stroud, staying North for now."

"I was telling Hawke that I got to travel with him for a bit," Alistair offered. "But he never mentioned being related to Hawke. Or being your cousin, Saoirse."

"He's a proud lad, my brother. Wouldn't want anyone to think he got to where he is through anything but his own efforts."

Her brow smoothed, but Alistair could tell she didn't really believe them. "Carver has a certain talent for making his family at once proud and exasperated."

"That he does. Now, shall we get a move on, then? The road awaits," Hawke said with a bright grin. "Unless you Wardens are paid to idle around and chat?"

Saoirse pursed her lips and shoved the bags in his arms. "Your herbs, _your Lordship_. You owe me 5 gold."

As Hawke walked ahead, Saoirse lingered by Alistair's side. "Did he say something to you?"

"Oh, nothing. Don't worry." He tried to sound as breezy as possible, his conversation with Garrett replaying in his mind.

She held his gaze for a beat, still doubtful.

"Alright."

******

A few hours out of Vifenal, the remnants of the Planacene forest made way to craggy rockface. The road Hawke had recommended was in poor shape, even more than the others that traversed the mountains. As Alistair, scouting ahead, disappeared around the bend, Saoirse slowed down to let her cousin catch up with her. Hawke squinted at her as he did, his hood up over his close-cropped hair.

"How kind of you to wait for me! Don't you just _love_ walking?" He said, wobbling as his foot caught on a jagged rock.

"We can take a break if you'd like."

"No, no, it's fine. It's just been a while since my last foray into the mountains. I've become more of a— "

"What did you tell him?"

"What did I what? To whom?"

"Oh, save it. You were not talking about Carver. Why were you lying?"

"I can't believe you'd have so little trust in your favorite cousin. For shame, Saoirse."

" _Garrett._ "

"What would I even be saying to him? Why are you so worried — wait." Garrett stopped in his tracks, his face transforming from fake outrage to glee. "Wait. Is _he_ the one you were moping about last time?"

"Keep it down, will you?" Saoirse hissed. Alistair was too far to overhear, thankfully.

"Is he??"

"I wasn't _moping_."

"You're right. Is he the one you were weeping about, then?"

"I wasn't weeping either!" Her cheeks grew bright red at the memory — a few years prior, Hawke had invited her to stay at his mansion in Kirkwall as she passed through the Free Marches. Saoirse had accepted, and one night, after one bottle of wine too many, she made the mistake of confiding in Garrett. She _might_ have gotten teary, now that she thought about it. But she'd been drunk and exhausted, and although she'd had to get over him by then, she couldn't talk about Alistair without a twinge of sorrow. Or more than a twinge, according to her cousin.

"The one that got away," Hawke mused, ignoring her. "And now you're reunited, working together to save the world. Or something. You still haven't told me why you needed to go to that prison _now._ "

"Stop changing the subject!" Saoirse snapped, well-aware that she was also changing the subject.

"My, my, you Wardens are a tense bunch. No, I didn't ask him if he was the one who stole my dear cousin's heart all those years ago. Wish I'd thought of it, to be honest." He sighed at her frown. "I swear. I didn't tell him anything, and I won't. My lips are sealed," Hawke added before letting out a bark of laughter.

"That's not funny, Garrett."

"No, no, it's not you, I just… Ah, how'd you call that? _Deja vu_. Happens to me a lot."

As they walked up the path, Finn went back and forth between Alistair and her, wagging his stubby tail. This time around, he hovered by her side, sniffing at her pack. Rummaging through her satchel, Saoirse found a bundle of dried meats next to the jar of Incense of Awareness she'd bought in Vifenal. It should be enough to last a couple of days underground if needed. The incense had been hard to procure, and the perspective of going below the surface without it was paralyzing. She could have kissed the apothecary when he handed her the jar.

"You were awfully vague about what happened between the two of you, you know."

Saoirse made a face as she fed Finn a bit of jerky. "Not vague enough, obviously."

"I mean, you're two young-ish, good-looking, healthy adults who get along fine."

"So?"

"And I know chemistry when I see it. So why not give it another go? Get back on that sturdy blonde saddle?"

" _Maker's breath_ , Garrett."

Shrugging, he continued. "What's stopping you, then, oh Hero of Ferelden?"

"It's not that simple."

"Nothing ever is."

"I just..." The words caught in her throat. "I've done something terrible to him. Something unforgivable."

"I'm not sure there's such a thing as unforgivable."

She and Hawke exchanged a look; his eyes had softened, his smile wistful. His love had done something _unforgivable_ , yet Hawke had stuck by him.

"How's our mutual friend?"

Her cousin blinked at her. "Whoever could you mean?"

"Perhaps I should say friend _s_ instead, if that clears it up." Saoirse understood Hawke's caution, but she worried about Anders. "I want to know. He's still one of my Wardens, and a friend, as much as he might hate it."

"He doesn't _hate_ it."

"Did you get in touch with the mage I told you about? The expert on spirits."

"I wrote to her, but free mages aren't too keen on traveling anywhere near Kirkwall. Maker knows why. Still, she gave us a few pointers."

"Good. Is he..." Saoirse trailed off, unsure how to ask if Anders had heard the Calling without revealing too much.

As Garrett shot her a quizzical look, Alistair ran back to them.

"The bridge ahead has collapsed."

"Wonderful." Hawke grimaced. "I think I know of another way around. Err, to the North. Yes, it's North of here,"

"Would you… like to look at the map first?" Alistair asked.

"No need. I know these mountains like the back of my hand."

++++++

A week later, after losing their way five times, almost falling into a ravine, and getting chased by a herd of Bronto, they found themselves seated at a table before the biggest wheel of cheese Alistair had ever seen.

That afternoon, as the sun started to set, Hawke had led them down a narrow path to a ramshackle house near the bottom of the valley. They needed shelter for the night, before their final push to the prison, and the mage had assured them he knew just the place. After knocking at the door, there was a long pause before someone came to open: as the hut's owner, a stout, pockmarked dwarf peeked out, her face split in a wide grin. Valda, a goat-herder and cheese-monger, was an old friend of Hawke, and the lone inhabitant of this valley.

"It's very quiet 'round here, the way I like it," Valda said as she set a dish of mushroom stew on the table. "But Gary here is always welcome. As are any friends of his."

"Valda is the best cook of all Thedas, let me tell you," Hawke called out from the small kitchen. The dwarf's home looked far more welcoming from the inside, clean and tidy, with bouquets of dried flowers on every windowsill.

"Used to work at Gary's estate in Kirkwall, I did. Never liked the city much, though, so he helped me settle here a couple of years back. Even did a bit of magic so I'd be left in peace by strangers and whatnot."

"You have a lovely home, Valda. Thank you for letting us stay," Saoirse said, sitting at Alistair's side. "Is there any way we could repay you?"

"Oh, don't mind it. I have everything I'll ever need."

"Valda, where do you hide your mustard? Can't find anything in— " Hawke's efforts produced a loud clattering noise, and Valda rushed back to him.

"You know, I wasn't sure about your cousin. Maybe it's because I've known him for a week and he almost got me killed eight times. Hard to say. But for some reason," Alistair said, pointing at the cheese wheel, "he's starting to grow on me."

"If Garrett's good at anything, it's making friends and courting disaster. Often at the same time. Did he tell you how we met?"

"No. Did you know him as a child?"

She shook her head, "I'd never heard of him, actually. My mother had cut ties with her family, and so had his, back then. Mine eloped with a poor man, hers with an apostate."

"Sounds like that would make for an awkward Wintersend supper."

"To say the least." Saoirse took a sip of tea. "Do you remember, seven years ago or so, when the Qun tried to take Kirkwall?"

"Of course."

"I was there on a mission, with Sigrun, Velanna, and a couple of local Wardens. Not two days after we arrive, all hell breaks loose, and we find ourselves fighting qunari troops in the street. I'd say it was bad luck, but Kirkwall seems to go up in flame every other day anyway."

"That it does," Alistair kept his tone casual, but he felt uneasy. Teagan had gotten him out of the city mere days before the Arishok's attempted coup. _Too close._

"So one second I'm facing down a Qunari with the largest axe I've ever seen, the next, he's blown away by a fireball out of nowhere. Then I see this man covered in blood and soot from head to toe walk out of the smoke, and he goes, "Lovely night for a stroll, isn't it?""

As if on cue, Valda's laughter rang from the kitchen.

"They're having fun, aren't they?"

"Seems like you're traveling with two professional jesters, not one," Alistair said, making her smile. "So when did you find out you were related?"

"When I introduced myself. Hawke told me to call on him once he was done with, and I quote, "this whole Qunari kerfuffle." And I did. I've been able to visit him a few times since then."

"Didn't he go into hiding after what happened at the Chantry? I'm surprised you were able to contact him at all."

"He wrote to me first." Saoirse lowered her voice as she continued. "He wanted me to research a strange type of lyrium Stannard was using on her templars. Red lyrium. It gives strange powers to those who use it, then it drives them mad."

"That can't be good news for the Templars."

"Indeed. I wasn't able to help him in the end. The Calling came before I could do anything." She glanced towards the kitchen with a slight frown. "I'm worried about him."

Alistair stopped himself as he reached for the cheese knife — he was getting ravenous. "Why? He seems fine. Aside from his sense of direction."

"He looks strained. I don't know who wouldn't be, in his situation." She sighed. "Garrett's rather good at hiding his feelings, I suppose."

"Is that a family thing? You have different styles, I'll give you that. Hawke piles on the jokes, and you retreat into your shell. Like a turtle that can do magic." Alistair smiled at the image; she wasn't smiling at all. "Don't worry. I won't ask you again."

Saoirse raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

"For now, at least _._ We need to focus on the mission, it's too important. But I'll have to know sooner or later. I know it was a decade ago. I know you've moved on. But I can't. I'm sure there's a reason why you're not telling me, but whatever the truth is, I can take it. I need to know." He ran his thumb over a knot in the wooden table. Perhaps she made a deal with Anora behind his back. Perhaps she thought she could use Loghain politically. Or…

His thoughts ground to a halt when Saoirse put her hand over his, a tentative, gentle touch. With the setting sun filtering through the window at her back, her beauty struck him like a blow, yet her eyes were full of sadness. He'd caught a glimpse of it during their first argument in Weisshaupt, hidden behind her composure. Now, she wasn't trying to hide it.

"Alistair, I--"

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Hawke said as Valda and he set down a dozen condiments on the table. "Now, let's dig in, shall we?"

Saoirse had pulled away as soon as her cousin barged in, forcing a smile, but Alistair found himself flexing the hand she had held. The desire to reach for her again lingered long after the memory of her touch faded.

******

As the incense filled her lungs, Saoirse's heartbeat started to slow down. They had been in the prison for hours when her third dose begun to fade away, a wave of blind panic forming in its wake. She had to walk away from Alistair and Hawke to take another dose.

Her shoulders relaxing, she replaced the jar in her belt pouch; Finn sat at her heel, patiently waiting for her. Ever since they went down the first set of steps, her mabari had not left her side; she gave him a grateful pat behind the ears, but the fear never left her brain. This place even smelled a bit like the Deep Roads, a hint of corruption in the air. _Andraste's blood_ , she hated this. Not just the confinement itself, but how powerless it made her feel, like a frenzied rabbit caught in a trap. Without the incense, she couldn't have gone more than a single step in, she knew. Taking a deep breath, she left the empty cell. Alistair and Hawke waited for her in the ruined hallway, watchful. A swarm of deepstalkers had attacked them earlier, and more could be nearby.

"So?" Hawke asked.

"Nothing."

He swore under his breath. Though he'd hidden the entrance to the prison years ago, the place was picked clean, all traces of the Wardens vanished. Gone were the records, the chests, the engravings. Deepstalkers couldn't have done that, of course. But signs of looters were nowhere to be found either.

"This makes no sense. Who would have gone through all this trouble? There was nothing of value here. Nothing. Trust me, if it hadn't been garbage, it would sit in a pawnshop as we speak."

"Nothing of value to regular looters, no," Saoirse said.

"Let's press on," Alistair eyed the corridor behind them, hand on his sword. "How close are we to Corypheus' chamber?"

"Not much further. Just… follow me."

As Hawke walked on, Alistair caught Saoirse's arm, holding her back.

"Are you alright? You look pale."

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't I always?"

"More than usual, I mean."

"I'm fine. But the sooner we're done with this place, the better. I have a bad feeling about this."

He dropped his hand, but his eyes didn't leave her face. "Right. Lead on, then. I'll take the rear."

The fourth floor was as empty as the previous ones. As they made their way towards the final seal, Saoirse thought of the manpower and resources one would need to strip a structure of this size, in the middle of nowhere. She thought of the kind of people who'd go through this trouble for worthless artifacts, their sole value in their connection to the ancient Magister. She thought of the reports she'd read, the mentions of strangers from the North. Saoirse gritted her teeth; she'd been right _._ Agents from Tevinter had been here. And they had found something, she was sure of it.

At her side, Finn's ears twitched, a low whine in his throat. It took her a second to understand what agitated him — the entire floor was silent as the grave. Above, they could hear droplets of water falling, faint howls of wind, insects chittering in corners. Not here. She buried her fingers in her mabari's fur. _These are not the Deep Roads_ , she told herself, over and over. _You are not lost._

"Here. The last seal is down there." Garrett dashed down a set of marble stairs to a heavy door; an unnatural glow surrounded it, golden and hazy. "I set it up myself. Only Hawke blood can open it. Hopefully."

Alistair exchanged a glance with Saoirse, his jaw set, but said nothing. Now was not the time for another argument about the proper uses of blood and magic. As Hawke set a blade against his arm and gave himself a shallow cut, droplets falling at his feet, the glow vanished. "Thank the Maker," he mumbled, pushing the door open. "At least I did _that_ one correctly."

The last floor of the Wardens' prison was also the smallest. At the end of a long corridor, at last, they reached what had been Corypheus' cell, a circular room with a domed, intricately carved ceiling. At the center stood a circular dais — where the creature had been held, Saoirse remembered from the reports. As she sent globes of light across the cell, she saw the broken, blackened griffin statues on the floor, the walls cracked by signs of battle. Off to the side, Alistair wiped the ashes off a sigil hung on the wall, revealing their Order's insignia. The engraving shone in the dim light. _In death, sacrifice._ Her throat gone dry, Saoirse looked away from the words looming over him, both an omen and a promise.

"Do you see anything different, Garrett? Anything at all?" Getting no answer, Saoirse turned around. Her cousin stood on the dais, unmoving.

"What is it, Hawke?" Alistair asked.

The mage shook his head. All traces of humor and confidence had left his face, and Saoirse felt her stomach drop. She'd never seen him like this.

"That's impossible."

"What?"

"He was dead. He was right _there._ Where the fuck is he?" Hawke said through clenched teeth, staring at the empty dais at his feet.

"Could someone have taken his remains away?" Saoirse asked, joining him on the platform.

"No!" Her cousin snapped. "No. The ward was still in place — no one could have gone through. And before you start telling me that maybe a horde of hungry beetles carried him off — "

"I wasn't going to. I haven't seen a single insect since we reached the fourth floor. Perhaps… Since Corypheus had extended his life for centuries, his body decayed more quickly..."

Hawke shook his head. "It's only been four years. And he was a _big_ bastard, trust me. There should be something left of him."

Alistair walked up to them, a grave look on his face. "And you're absolutely sure he was dead?"

"I've killed a _lot_ of things in my life, Alistair. I know what dead looks like," Hawke retorted.

"I know. But that creature was tied to the Blight, right?" Saoirse nodded, and Alistair's frown grew deeper. "What if he's less like a Darkspawn, and more like an Archdemon?"

She blanched as his words registered. "But that would mean..."

"That he didn't die." Turning to Hawke, Alistair added. "When an Archdemon is slain, their soul doesn't disappear. It just transfers to whatever Darkspawn is closest to them, or into a Warden."

"Weren't Anders and Carver with you, Garrett?"

"Yes. There was also that old Warden, the weird one — Larius, that was his name," Hawke said.

"Did anything happen to one of them? When Corypheus fell." Saoirse didn't want to reveal the death sentence that slaying an Archdemon carried, not to Hawke. She wasn't sure Alistair knew either.

The mage hesitated. "I don't… I suppose Larius was _less_ weird afterward. The man was practically a ghoul when we found him, but once we killed Corypheus, his mind seemed clearer. He said he would tell the Wardens about what happened, and he just... set off. Didn't he reach your people?"

"No." She would have heard of him if he had. The commander of the Free Marches, Gawain, was too dense to hide such a thing.

"Then what if— " Alistair was stopped short by Finn's growling; the mabari stared at the empty doorway, his hackles raised.

"Take cover," Saoirse whispered. "We've got company."

The intruders breached the door moments later; Saoirse counted five humans, all hooded, all trying to move unseen. Two of them carried staves, the others raising their blades in the dark. _Take out the mages first._ As their leader got closer to Hawke's cover, Saoirse clutched at her staff, summoning as much mana as she could draw out, and nodded at her companions.

At her signal, Alistair tossed a fire grenade into the fray. As the explosion shook the walls, Saoirse jumped to her feet, and Hawke threw a wall of ice between the chamber and the corridor, sharp edges ramming into the trespassers. She released her mana, bringing it down on the two mages — too much, she realized as she staggered back. But it worked. One of them fell at once, the other one lurching forward, the faint red shimmer of a shield around her.

"Stay back!" Hawke called out as his hands glowed white. Lightning shot from his fingertips with a sharp crack, hitting the warrior breaking through the ice wall first, then moving to all his allies. One of them dropped his weapon, crying out at the shock. Alistair saw an opening, throwing a dagger at his throat, hitting him in a gush of blood. By then, the air tasted of metal and magic.

The first man to break through moved towards Hawke, his pale face distorted by fury. Jumping from the shadows, Finn bit at his back leg, dragging him back, and Alistair moved in to bash him with his shield. The man fell down with a startled cry, cut short by Duncan's sword. A second warrior broke through Hawke's barrier, shattering it to pieces. The woman, tall and powerfully built, snarled at Alistair, raising her own shield.

As Saoirse righted herself, magic crackling in her palms, she focused back on the second mage, shielded by one of the warriors. Recognizing her gestures, she paled. _She wouldn't. She can't hit us without hurting her._ Then she saw the telltale orange glow.

"Fireball!" Saoirse shouted, conjuring a shield a mere second before the mage released her spell. The fireball burst at the center of the room; Saoirse's protection absorbed most of the damage, but Finn, Hawke, Alistair, and her flew backward from the blast. Her back hit the wall hard as the tall warrior howled in pain, her voice drowned by the roaring flames.

The last two attackers moved into the cloud of smoke, weapons raised. As the warrior moved to attack Hawke, stunned on the ground, Alistair stepped in between them. His shield took the brunt of his enemy's blows, but Alistair winced — his opponent was strong. The ringing in Saoirse's ears waned as she got up. Across the room, the mage downed a potion, throwing the empty bottle to the ground as her eyes glowed red. _Was that red lyrium?_ They couldn't afford to take much more damage. In the millisecond she had to make a decision, Saoirse glimpsed a jagged piece of metal sticking out of the wall, a damaged Silverite sconce. She knew what she had to do.

Rushing forward on a wave of mana, she stopped right in front of the mage, who stumbled backward in surprise. In half a heartbeat, Saoirse's magic dragged a block of stone from the floor, sending it straight into the other woman's chest, flinging her back. The sound she made as she impaled herself on the piece of metal made Saoirse's stomach lurch, but there was no time to feel sick. Wheeling around, she saw the last of their attackers wailing down on Alistair, one furious blow against another. Alistair's sword arm was pouring blood, but he held fast. Before Saoirse could think of a spell, Hawke got to his feet with a string of curses, and glowered at the intruder.

"Give the Maker my regards, will you?" He said as he closed his fist, and the stranger dropped his mace with a guttural yelp as Hawke's magic crushed him. With a swift move, Alistair plunged his sword into his chest, silencing him for good.

As the smoke cleared, Saoirse ran to Finn, who was struggling to get up — he'd landed on a shattered statue when the fireball sent them flying, and it seemed like he might have broken a leg. "Good boy," she whispered as she sent a healing spell through him, kissing the top of his head. Finn whined as he got up and licked her hand, his eyes still a bit unfocused. A few feet away, Hawke was healing the gash on Alistair's arm. Saoirse's breath caught — blood was dripping from his fingers, his sleeve stained red.

"Where's the trust, cousin?" Hawke said as he saw her approach. "I'm doing a fantastic job, I'll have you know."

Reading her expression, Alistair gave a small smile. "I'm fine. Looks worse than it actually is. Besides, I didn't need all that blood anyway."

"See? Right as rain." Hawke said, slapping Alistair's biceps, making him flinch. "You might want to talk to the new wall decor over there, and soon. The others don't look like they have much to say."

Saoirse looked at the broken bodies strewn around them, the chamber reeking of burning flesh, smoke, and blood. One the wall, the mage still moved, weakly, Silverite poking through her torso. Her nausea rising again, Saoirse walked up to her. She could see her face under the hood now — the design of which she'd never seen before, white and oddly shaped. The mage was young, barely thirty at most, her amber skin drained of all color. Intricate earrings glinted under her dark hair, catching the light. _This is a person_ , voices whispered at the back of Saoirse's brain. _This is someone's daughter, someone's friend. This could have been you. And now you've killed her._

"What's your name?"

The mage sneered, her voice thin. "Not yours to know, Warden."

"As you wish." Saoirse looked down at the blood pooling at her feet. "I can make the pain stop. Just tell me who sent you. I'll make it quick, I promise."

"Keep your mercy, churl. The Elder One will show you none." Her green eyes flashed. "He'll have you all on your knees."

"I'm sure he will," Saoirse said gently, holding a hand to the stranger's forehead. A cold spell surged through her mangled body, and the light in her eyes faded into nothingness.

"Well, I suppose we have a name now," Hawke said as he peered over one of the dead warriors. His tone was airy, but he was rattled, his mouth set in a tight line. "I don't know what your plans are, but I'm getting out of this shithole. I suggest you follow me."

"Saoirse," Alistair put a hand on her shoulder, and she tore her eyes away from the dead woman.

"Right. Let's go."

As they reached the doorway, she went for the waterskin at her belt, the taste of smoke still in her mouth. She stopped in her tracks as her hand brushed past her pouch: it felt flat. Empty. Clenching her jaw, she rushed back into the chamber, kneeling where she'd fallen after the blast. On the floor, smashed to pieces, lay the jar of incense of awareness, its contents scattered among the debris. Everything around her went blurry.

"No no no no no..." Her fingers started to shake. She tried to take a deep breath, but it came in shallow, as if her lungs had shrunk down to nothing.

There were voices behind her, but she couldn't understand a word over the throbbing in her ears. She felt something soft and warm at her side — _Finn_ , she thought as she clutched at his fur, but she couldn't see him. She could hardly see anything. Her vision narrowed as sharp pain bloomed under her breastbone until at last all faded away, and she could see nothing but bright spots over a sea of darkness, pulsating along with her frantic heartbeat.


	15. Chapter 15

**9:41 Dragon**

Sunrise crept over the mountains as they left the prison behind. After a few yards, they halted under a ruined wooden structure, sheltered from the wind that howled through the chasm. As Hawke started pacing, Alistair relaxed his hold on Saoirse's waist, and her arm slipped off his shoulders as he helped her sit on the ground. Finn lay down at her side, his eyes wide in alarm.

Alistair's thighs ached as he crouched down in front of her; he'd been half-carrying, half-dragging her for hours as they made their way out. Whatever it was, Hawke's spell had left her hazy and disoriented, but able to walk. It had unnerved him to see her like this, first helpless on the cell floor, then lost, adrift. "Unnerved" was not quite right: he'd felt his heart sink like a stone. Now, watching her in the pale morning light, he let out a sigh of relief when he saw her eyes clearing.

_Thank the Maker._

Saoirse's bottom lip was still bloody — she'd bit it hard as she broke down, her whole body shaking. Alistair poured some water on a kerchief and gently wiped the dried blood away; he was probably overstepping, but he couldn't just do nothing. As color started to return to her ashen face, he heard Hawke come up behind him, prickly anger radiating from the mage.

"If you could stop fussing over her for a second, I'd like to have a word with my cousin," Hawke said, his tone withering.

"Leave her be, Hawke."

"You know what, I think I won't. Now, Saoirse, if you're quite done with your little display — "

Alistair got to his feet, standing between the two of them. "Back off. I mean it."

Hawke chortled, looking up at him — Alistair was much taller, but the mage hardly seemed daunted. "How chivalrous. By all means, oh gallant knight protector, do tell me: what in the _Void_ is going on? Why did the two of you have to come here now? I'm guessing it's not a coincidence we stumbled upon those lovely folks in there."

"... No. No, it's not." Alistair rubbed his chin, unsure how much he should reveal. "We've heard of strangers from the North coming to the prison this past year. We didn't know they'd still be here."

Hawke made a gesture of impatience. "And? Why would the Warden-Commander of Ferelden be the one to check on this?"

"Something is happening with the Wardens down South. Something weird. Saoirse thought the two could be linked."

"What do you mean, _weird_? Some sort of corruption, or..."

"Yes." From her spot in the sand, Saoirse's voice sounded hoarse, but her gaze was focused. "I think someone is manipulating the Orlesian wardens, or at least their Commander. And Corypheus had the power to do that, as did the Architect. When I heard rumors about Northerners reaching the prison, I thought perhaps Tevinter had found a way to use that power for their own gain."

Garrett frowned. "What could they possibly want with the Orlesian wardens?"

Alistair and Saoirse exchanged a glance, their worry mirroring each other's. "I'm not sure. But there are few other places in Thedas where one could find an army of skilled warriors and free mages of that size," she said.

"Well. Shit." Hawke resumed his pacing, faster this time.

"Garrett, I'm sorry--"

"If you're right, if Corypheus didn't die…" He cut her off, staring at Alistair. "That girl said something about an Elder One, didn't she? Doesn't that sound like the kind of self-aggrandizing name that bastard would give to himself?"

Alistair blanched as he realized the implications behind Hawke's words. If the Tevinterians revered Corypheus, perhaps they weren't using his powers for their own ends. Perhaps it was the other way around.

"Maker's balls. I didn't kill him, did I? I helped him escape."

"Hawke, this is pure speculation — we don't know what's going on yet."

"Oh, _please._ As if I could try to set things right once in my life without making it worse." Hawke let out a strangled laugh as he ran his hands over his face.

"You couldn't have known, Garrett. I thought I'd killed the Architect too. Now, I'm not so sure."

"But it's not the same, is it? You weren't the one who unleashed him upon the world. I..." He closed his eyes, his jaw grinding. "This is a disaster. Let's just leave. To the coast — I'm not letting whatever bad luck I'm carrying anywhere near Valda."

The mage set off into the chasm without another word, his shoulders slumping as the distance between them grew. Alistair turned back to Saoirse; she hadn't moved, her eyes following Hawke's silhouette. Anguish and exhaustion clouded her features, and she looked almost small like this, her back hunched, her long limbs folded upon themselves.

"Do you want to rest?" He asked.

She shook her head. "He's right. We should leave."

Saoirse took the hand he offered and came to her feet. Alistair steadied her at the waist as she wobbled, his hand lingering on her hip for an instant, like it belonged there, like it always had.

******

Saoirse finished wiping water off her face with the scratchy towel the inn provided, pausing as she caught her reflection in the mirror. All in all, she didn't appear as disheveled as she'd expected. She'd managed to brush the knots out of her hair, and aside from the slight sunburn on her nose and cheeks, she showed little trace of the ordeal they'd been through; the nap had helped, as did a long bath. The dark circles around her eyes were old friends by now, and no amount of sleep would make them go away. Her father sported them as well — her eyes the only part of her that she hadn't inherited from her mother. After hanging the towel, she grabbed her undershirt from the bed, tempted to crawl back under the covers.

The last few days of travel to the coast, mountains giving way to rocky hills, had been tense. Hawke, especially, had been moody and silent, two traits she'd never associated with her cousin. On her end, Saoirse had tried to focus on what little they knew, to keep her mind from collapsing into a heap of conjectures. It had been difficult. She felt like a storm was gathering in the distance, far away but fast approaching, and her breakdown was yet another sign of how powerless she really was.

Though wrung out at first, she had kept up with Hawke and Alistair. But as soon as they reached the seaport inn where they would wait for their boat to Orlais, she crashed down on her bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. She had woken up hours later, at sundown, with her mabari flopped over her like a furry blanket. Wiggling from under him without waking him up had been tricky, but Finn had barely slept since her episode in Corypheus' cell, watching over her like a mother hen. He deserved some rest. After changing into a clean shirt, blue flannel soft against her skin, she gave her snoring dog a last pet and tiptoed out of her room.

The air smelled of spiced fish and pastries, and when Saoirse reached the dining room, she found it crowded with sailors and locals alike. It only took a second to locate Hawke — he was at the center of it all, playing cards with half a dozen strangers, all laughing like lifelong friends. Her mouth curved up as she passed his table. It was good to see him smile again; although she knew a facade when she saw one, their troubles were far from over, and every moment of levity was precious.

Alistair sat at the back of the room. He looked like he'd rested and bathed as well, his still-damp hair pushed back, and he had already started to eat, an unfinished fish pie sitting on his plate.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said as she approached. "I knocked on your door earlier, but I figured you were asleep."

"I was." Saoirse stretched her shoulders a bit as she sat across the table. "Hadn't slept like this in ages."

"Finn's still up there?"

"Yes. Even the smell of dinner couldn't rouse him."

"That's… actually impressive." He looked up from his meal, and there was a silent beat before he spoke again. "You look nice."

"Thank you. So do you." Ignoring the bright jolt he'd sent through her chest, she added: "How's the mulled wine?"

He shrugged. "No idea. Smells nice, though."

 _Tea again_ , Saoirse noticed his cup as she helped herself to a small fish pie. Alistair hadn't been much of a tea drinker, back then, but they had both changed in many ways. _He can still get you flustered in three words, so some things aren't that different._

"Have you talked to your cousin yet?"

"Not yet. He seems like he's having fun, so I figured I'd leave him alone for now. Have you?"

"A little." Alistair leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He has some loose ends to tie in the Free Marches, but he wants to come South too. Said he has a friend in Ferelden who needs to hear about all this."

Saoirse sighed. She'd expected as much. "Hopefully we'll know more by the time he gets there."

"Do you— "

Before Alistair could finish his thought, Hawke had run to their table, an intense expression on his face. "Saoirse! I need two — no, three silvers. Please?"

"Game is going well, I take it?"

"I'm _this_ close to winning, I swear. I can almost taste victory."

"Fine. Here's... five silvers. Go and make me proud."

Garrett planted a kiss on her hand as she handed him the coins, and sauntered back to his table.

"You know you'll never see that money again, right?"

"It's fine. Hawke is always either borrowing coins or showering me with gifts. I don't mind."

Music rose from the other side of the room as an old elven minstrel started to play the fiddle, sitting atop the bar. Alistair turned to watch him as Saoirse finished her meal; she glanced at his profile from under her eyelashes. His long fingers tapped on the table along the music, a bit off rhythm. He looked so handsome in his dark red tunic, bathed by candlelight, that it briefly distracted her from what she meant to do. There was little she remembered after she found the broken jar in Corypheus' cell, but through the haze that followed, she'd felt his warmth at her side, and heard his voice. He'd been there for her. As she pondered how to bring up the incident, he caught her peering at him.

"Hmm? What is it?

"I wanted to apologize for what happened at the prison. I'm sorry. I should have been more careful."

"There's no need to apologize. Bu you weren't always afraid of being underground, were you? We spent weeks in the Deep Roads back then, and you never showed any signs of that."

"No. It's only been a few years. I can usually manage it with the incense, but..." She trailed off, and a small frown appeared on his brow.

"Did something happen?"

 _No._ The lie stuck in Saoirse's throat, so she told him the truth. "Yes."

Alistair leaned forward again, waiting for her to continue.

"It was about four years ago. I was down in the Deep Roads under the Hunterhorn mountains with my team. We'd found some records of a Dwarven healer researching a cure for the Blight, and we were searching for more when the ground started to shake. A whole section of Kal Sharok collapsed from under our feet. Two of us got cut off from the others. Too much rock caved-in for magic to clear out, even if we hadn't gotten hurt. I broke my leg, but my friend, he… he took a bad fall. His back was — no amount of healing helped. All I could do was ease his pain." She felt her voice falter, took a swig of mulled wine. In her mind, she could still see Nathaniel's pale face, blood trickling from his mouth as he told her to leave him behind, over and over again. How his eyes had closed, in the end, peace overtaking his features. "I had to bury him down there. He deserved better."

There was a quiet moment before Alistair spoke again, "How long did it take you to find your way out?"

"Three months."

_"Maker's breath."_

"I was shapeshifted for most of it. A bat attracts less attention than a Warden. Made it easier to find an exit, though I wasn't sure there even _was_ an exit until I stumbled upon it. " She picked at a fingernail, avoiding his gaze. She felt like she might cry if she did, oddly, and the idea of weeping over a fish pie in a packed tavern was not appealing. "That's also why Finn is so protective of me — he's afraid I'll disappear again."

Laughter erupted from Hawke's table, chasing away the dregs of loneliness, desperation, and fear. Saoirse cleared her throat, grateful for the distraction.

"I don't… like to speak of that time. I'd forget it if I could. But since then, I haven't been able to go underground without using the incense. I've avoided it as much as I could, frankly."

"You can't be serious."

She stared at him, surprised. He sounded incredulous, and his face matched his tone. "What?"

"Let me get this straight: you've been through all that, yet you _volunteered_ for this mission, knowing what it entailed?"

"Well..."

"Did you not trust Hawke and me to do the job?"

"That's not it at all! I do trust you. But this mission is _my_ responsibility — I couldn't just sit outside while you put yourselves into danger."

"But you could have done that. We would have understood."

"No."

"You— "

"I am a Grey Warden, Alistair. Above all else. Our duty means that sooner or later, I will need to go down to the Deep Roads. I can't run from them forever. And as a Commander, I can't ask my Wardens to risk their lives like that while I cower on the sidelines. I will not do less than them."

He leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed. "If you knew one of your Wardens had the same fear as you, would you force her to go underground? What if it were Velanna or Edmond? Would you force them?"

"That's not the same."

"But it is! You keep talking about not putting others into danger — what about yourself? Why doesn't that matter?"

"Because..." She stopped herself, unwilling to phrase how she truly felt. _Because I don't deserve it._ "Because I'm their Commander. I will not give myself preferential treatment. Whatever you think of me — "

"What _do_ I think of you?"

He looked at her straight on, but there was no hostility in his voice, just a hint of teasing. A prickle of warmth ran down her spine.

"I suppose I don't know." Saoirse took another swig of mulled wine, wishing it was cold water instead. The minstrel finished his song, a smattering of applause following his efforts.

Alistair's eyes didn't leave her. "I'm sorry about your friend, Saoirse. I'm sure he was glad to have you by his side in the end."

"Thank you."

"Who was he?"

"His name was Nathaniel. Nathaniel Howe, actually."

"As in... Rendon Howe?"

"Yes. Nate was his youngest son."

Alistair frowned. "I didn't know he had a Warden for a son."

"He became one after the war." Saoirse smiled at the thought of their first meeting, in Vigil's keep's dungeon. "He was planning to murder me, at first, but he had a bit of a change of heart. He ended up going through Joining instead, the same day as Velanna and Sigrun."

"Quite the reversal, I'd say,"

"Nathaniel was a surprising man." Her smile grew wistful. "I wish he were here. If anyone could make sense of this mess, it would be him."

"Sounds like the two of you were close."

"We were, yes."

Alistair shifted in his seat, watching her intently. She knew _this_ look — curiosity was eating him alive.

"What is it you want to ask, Alistair?"

"Were the two of you together?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him. " _Really?_ "

"I mean..."

"Maker helps me — no, we weren't. We were just friends. In another life, perhaps, we could have been more. Just not this one."

"Why?" Alistair seemed surprised by his own question, like it escaped him by accident. He had told her about his ex-wife, however, so it was only fair for her to be honest as well.

"I just don't get involved with people in that way. Not that I've lived like a revered Mother either, mind you," she added, noticing his dubious expression. "But I've never fallen in love again. There's only really ever been..."

Saoirse's mouth snapped shut. She'd said far too much — she saw how his eyes widened when her words registered, heard the breath he held. In a heartbeat, the air between them shifted. _There's only ever been you._ With one unfinished sentence, Saoirse had lost control of the situation.

"Anyway. I should get back to my room." She got up from her chair, looking anywhere but at him. "Our boat leaves at eight. I'll see you tomorrow morning?"

Her ears burned as she strode across the dining room, ignoring Hawke as she passed his table. _Why do I keep embarrassing myself like this_ , she wondered, though she knew very well why. She had never been good at lying to herself when it came to Alistair.

++++++

For a few seconds after she left, Alistair sat frozen in place, blinking at the empty seat across the table, her words echoing in his head. _Did she just..._ Gritting his teeth, he went after her. He wasn't going to let her run away. Not this time.

Saoirse was almost at her door when he caught up with her, catching her wrist. The narrow, low-lit corridor was empty around them.

"You know, I didn't expect the Hero of Ferelden to be the type to run away from a conversation. Someone should have told the Archdemon, really. Would have saved him a fight."

Her jaw set, she fixed her eyes to a spot above his right shoulder. "Very funny."

"Why are you running away, Saoirse?" Alistair let go of her arm and took a step forward, crowding her against the wall.

"I don't know what you want me to say." She crossed her arms, her tone even, but her flush deepened. "I'm just trying to get some rest."

Alistair felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. _Stubborn as ever._

"Fine." He stepped even closer, putting his hands on the wall, enclosing her body. "Look at me, then."

She swallowed hard. They were mere inches apart; there was no way for her to ignore him, not without rudeness or cowardice, two things she was not. So she looked at him.

His bravado melted like ice in the sun. Since their first meeting in Weisshaupt, they had stood close to each other many times — fighting, arguing with each other, sheltering from the elements, sharing a meal — but this was different. Whatever Alistair had tried to get out of her hardly mattered anymore, now that her scent invaded his senses. The circumstances that led them here, in this cramped inn on the Waking sea, their past, their mission, all faded away. Even the sounds of music and laughter coming from the dining room dwindled to a whisper.

The only thing that mattered was the space between them. _You look nice_ , he'd said earlier. _Maddeningly beautiful_ is what he meant. And now Saoirse was close enough that he could feel her breath as she exhaled, he wanted to say it to her. But her pupils were blown out, her lips parted, and he couldn't have spoken if he tried. He'd seen that expression on her before, sometimes hidden below layers of composure, sometimes plain as day.

Alistair leaned forward, slowly, every fiber of his being pulled to her, and his fingers clenched on the wall as Saoirse's eyes dropped to his mouth. He was a few inches taller than her, but she only had to raise herself ever so slightly to close the distance. And as she moved her hands to his chest, her eyelids fluttering, Alistair tilted his head, heat washing over his body. He'd wanted this for a while. For longer than he cared to admit.

Then she recoiled so hard the back of her head hit the wall with a loud thud. For an instant, they stared at each other in silence — Saoirse looked like she'd seen a ghost. Her hands remained on his chest, moving with his labored breath until she realized what she was doing and yanked them away. Alistair was about to voice the frustration bubbling inside of him when he saw something like panic in her eyes. His arms fell limp, and he stepped back without a word. He stood there in a daze, rooted to the ground, long after he heard the sound of her door closing.

******

Wide awake on top of her bedspread, Saoirse turned over, burying her head in her pillow. She wanted to scream, but Finn was sound asleep on the rug — she let out a strangled moan instead. _You absolute moron._ It had been an hour since Alistair caught her in the hallway, and her skin was still feverishly hot. _If I don't kiss him right now, I will lose my mind_ , she had thought, her self-control fraying like a rope. And then she'd remembered.

Ten years had passed since the dreams had plagued her nights, yet they stayed vivid in her memory. She hadn't known _this_ particular vision was one of them, not until she'd been a hairbreadth away from Alistair and realized she'd seen this all before. The painted door frame behind him, the hardwood paneling on the walls, the planes of his face in the low light. She'd dreamed of them in Redcliffe, all those years ago. It hadn't been just a fantasy borne out of her infatuation with him after all. The realization had sent her flying backward; her skull still smarted where she'd hit it. But now, though her brain struggled to make sense of it — what it meant for her to have dreamed of _this_ — all she could think of was the rest of that dream. Of his well-kissed lips on her neck, of her hand traveling down his body. She flipped over on her bed again — she thought her desire would simmer down in time, but there were no signs of it. In truth, she wasn't sure she wanted it to.

Taking a deep breath, Saoirse pressed her palms into her eyes. There were two choices in front of her. She could torture herself to try and figure out the meaning of it all, reread old journals, and weigh theories until she exhausted herself enough to fall asleep.

Or she could get up, walk to his room and finish what they'd started.

She rose so fast her feet got tangled in her blanket.

Kicking it off with an impatient huff, she was about to reach for the door handle when she heard a soft knock. Her pulse jumped. _Alistair._

But when she opened it, a very tipsy, very wobbly Hawke stumbled in instead.

"Can't find my room," he mumbled as he made his way to her bed, plopping down on the mattress.

Gathering all her self-control to not toss him out or abandon him there, she grimaced. "Yet you found mine rather easily."

"I've knocked on four other doors. Or three. But behold, my heart led me back to my favorite cousin."

"So there's no part of you that has a sense of direction. Fascinating." She glanced towards the door, biting the inside of her cheek. "Are you planning on sleeping here?"

"Not originally. But I don't think I can get up. Ever."

"Garrett--"

"Hang on," he said. "I have some money for you."

Hawke twisted around with a groan, rummaging through bottomless pockets until half of his body hung off the bed, and Saoirse couldn't help but smile.

"Need a hand there?"

"Almost got it — hah!" He pulled out a single copper and held it up in triumph. "We're rich, Saoirse."

She laughed, and Garrett beamed back at her, patting the mattress next to him. After a second of hesitation, she joined him on the bed. Maybe throwing herself at Alistair had been a harebrained idea, she reasoned: he probably didn't want to see her at all, and she had embarrassed herself enough for one night.

"Sorry I couldn't win back your silver. I really thought I had it in me," he said as he reclined on the bedspread.

"It's fine. I'm sure you did your best."

"Right. Though that doesn't seem to quite cut it these days, does it?"

His blue eyes were glistening when she peered down at his face.

"I feel that way all the time."

"Maker," he snorted. "I don't know if that's reassuring."

"I wasn't trying to be. I just meant that you're not alone in this."

"But you saved an entire _country_. I wasn't even able to save a city. Not properly, anyway."

"Whatever happened afterward, you still saved Kirkwall. Things were bound to fall apart sooner or later. We all knew it. That doesn't erase the fact that thousands of people got to survive the Qun because of you."

"Hmm." Hawke tilted his head towards her. "Saoirse?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for being such an ass. About your episode, back at the prison. I know it's not the kind of thing you can control."

Despite his beard and the crinkling skin around his eyes, he looked like an apologetic little boy, and she felt a rush of tenderness for her strange, bright cousin. "It's fine. I'm the one who messed up. I should have been more open with you."

"Why should you? Getting me involved is a recipe for disaster, as always."

"Even if it were true, which it isn't, you had the right to know," Saoirse said, leaning back next to him. The bed was a little small for the two of them, but she could have easily fallen asleep. It reminded her of the years she'd spent sharing a bed with her younger siblings, so long ago, huddling together during the cold winter months.

After a long pause, Hawke sighed: "Aren't you tired?"

"Now that you mention it, I _am_ being kept awake by a bizarre little man, so…"

He elbowed her lightly. "I don't mean just tonight."

"I figured. I feel…" _Brittle. Ragged. Like tiredness has seeped into my bones, and I'm one bad hit away from crumbling into dust._ "I feel like the last decade has been a century long, frankly."

After a short silence, Hawke raised himself up on one arm, his face serious, and took her hand in his. "Don't worry, cousin. You don't look a day over eighty."

++++++

Alistair heard her laughter, followed by Hawke's, and froze mid-gesture, knuckles hovering over her door. He hadn't anticipated this. She was supposed to be alone.

He felt his jaw clench as he forced himself to walk away, his back stiff as a board. _We'll talk tomorrow, then,_ he thought, knowing full well that when he had come to Saoirse's room, after an hour of staring at the wall, talking was the furthest thing from his mind.


	16. Chapter 16

**9:31 Dragon**

"'Twas not as terrible as last time. Your form is improving," Morrigan said as Saoirse shifted back to her human body, the sharp senses of the wolf she'd transformed into fading away. The smells of snow gathering up in the clouds, of mushrooms growing in the shade, of small warm-blooded critters hiding in their burrows all disappeared, leaving only the familiar scent of the forest. By then, the Northern Hinterlands was known territory. They were on the road to Redcliffe before continuing towards Haven, enjoying the last daylight before another night out in the cold. The past few days had been mild, but the closer they got to the Frostback mountains, the stronger they could feel the chill. Even Morrigan, usually the last one to bundle up, had put her thick cloak back on.

"Thank you. It still doesn't feel quite right. I haven't been around wolves as much as you have -- is it easier to shift into familiar creatures?"

"Perhaps, but as I have never taught this to anyone else, your performance might be mediocre for myriad reasons. I could list a few."

Saoirse raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Would you care to enlighten me, then?"

"It would be my utmost pleasure. Let's see...." Morrigan looked up and down her wool-bundled figure. "You are exceedingly gangly, 'tis certain. A fawn would be a more appropriate choice than a wolf. You also happen to be wary around magic you have not read a hundred books about. I would blame the Circle, but that particular aspect could predate it."

"Excellent points. I shall endeavor to be less gangly and to burn any book about shapeshifting I happen upon," Saoirse said, the tingling under her skin ebbing, as it usually did after their lessons. Shapeshifting was thrilling, so much so that it unsettled her, unsure whether it was due to the magic itself, or to the fact that the Circle would have forbidden it.

Morrigan let out an exasperated sigh, but she was smiling too. "Hmph. Very amusing. If we are done, I shall retire to my tent. Hopefully your mongrel has not left me another present — one half-eaten rabbit was plenty."

"I'd check under the covers if I were you. Finn likes the element of surprise. Before you go..."

"We will not be trying bird forms anytime soon, before you ask. I shan't teach you to fly when you can hardly walk."

"That's not it," Saoirse said, as if she hadn't been itching to learn just that. "Have you been making progress with the grimoire? I saw you reading it last night."

The Witch hesitated. "I have, yes. 'Tis… interesting, if disturbing."

"How so?"

"I cannot explain it, not yet. I will let you if that changes."

"Alright." Saoirse thought of the pages she'd copied, stashed away in a deep corner of her pack. Her curiosity would have to wait.

"It should not — ugh, he is staring at you again," Morrigan said, glaring over Saoirse's shoulder. "His constant ogling was tiresome when I first found you in the Wilds, but now? 'Tis even worse."

Following her gaze, Saoirse found Alistair standing by the firepit, his cheeks flushed, staring pointedly at his feet. Oh. Whatever she saw on her face, Morrigan disapproved of it, and the Witch rolled her eyes as she turned on her heels. "There is truly no accounting for taste."

As Morrigan made her way to her tent, Saoirse found herself fighting two very different impulses. The fainter one urged her to get as far away from Alistair as she could, give herself enough time to calm the flock of birds fluttering in her ribcage, and return as a woman in control of her own mind. The stronger one prompted her to run to him right this minute, to wrap herself in his warmth. Neither were sensible, especially in a camp where all her other companions could see her behave like a lovestruck dolt. None of them were paying attention to her, however — Wynne was brewing elfroot potions while Zevran and Leliana sparred, and Sten was tossing comically large branches at Finn for him to fetch. So, with as much dignity as she could muster, she walked to Alistair. At an average, unremarkable pace, or so she hoped.

Morrigan hadn't been wrong. He had been looking at her often. Saoirse knew this because she'd been looking at him as well. More and more, since Denerim. All traces of frostiness from her had gone — after what happened at Goldanna's, there was no point in pretending she didn't care about him, and the idea of hurting his feelings further was too painful to consider. Besides, they were friends, weren't they? He'd even called her "a true friend" a few days prior. There could be no harm in being around him, as long as she watched herself, or so she repeated in her head when she reached the firepit, and he gave her a soft smile.

"What's for dinner?" She asked, glancing at the bubbling pot.

"Barley stew. I _did_ salt it this time, don't worry. Listen, I wanted to… " Alistair cast a quick glance around them, then reached for the pack at his feet, fumbling with the buckle for a moment. His blush deepened; it wasn't just the cold that was turning him red, she realized. _Why is he nervous?_

At last, Alistair produced a rectangular box, the image of a bear carved in its dark wood. He slid the cover off, revealing a single rose, dark red petals vibrant against the velvet lining, and held it out to Saoirse.

"How — where did you find this?" She asked, leaning closer, too surprised to wonder why he was showing her this. They were well into the brutal Fereldan winter by then, and few things could grow in this cold, let alone a perfect rose.

"I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking, how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?" His fingers brushed against the petals, his touch gentle. "I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since."

"But.. how has it not wilted by now?"

"Oh, it's the box. I recognized it when Flemeth let us pick gear for the road, from that weird stash at the back of her hut." Alistair grimaced. "It's a Lyrium box, you see. Might have belonged to a poor bastard unlucky enough to be sent to find the Witch of the Wilds. I don't use Lyrium, but these can keep anything fresh for months. Besides, it didn't feel right to leave it there either. Whoever owned it took good care of it once."

Saoirse considered the well-polished cherry wood, the quality of the fabric inside. "I'm sure they'd prefer you have it than her."

"I figured as much." Gingerly, Alistair lifted the rose out of the box. "But this... I thought that I might… give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you."

"Oh." She took the flower from his hand, and, for what seemed an interminable moment, words failed her.

_Thank you._

_How nice of you._

_Do you think of me as a gentle flower, then?_

Nothing came to mind, all coherent thoughts drowned out by her heart. She could only stare at the rose, so bright against her gloves — the gloves he'd given her.

"I guess it's a bit silly, isn't it? I just thought... Here I am doing all this complaining, and you haven't exactly been having a good time of it yourself," he said, and she raised her eyes to him. He sounded apologetic, a fine line appearing between his brows. "You've had none of the good experiences of being a grey warden since your joining, not a word of thanks or congratulations. It's all been death and fighting and tragedy. I thought maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this… darkness.

Her breath caught, and there were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, all of them dangerous. Because she felt the exact same way about him. "Thank you, Alistair. It's beautiful."

He smiled as he handed her the box, a bit sheepish. "I'm glad you like it. Now… if we could move right on past this awkward, embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits, I'd appreciate it."

Alistair's tone was lighthearted, and she was about to respond the same way when she remembered the way she'd dreamed of him, weeks prior in Ostagar. The way her hands had since wandered between her thighs at night, thinking of him. Saoirse felt her cheeks grow red hot, and he stilled, his own flush growing darker with embarrassment.

 _Get a hold of yourself_ , you dunce, she scolded herself as she finally spoke again. "I should go put it in my tent before dinner, shouldn't I?"

"Right, of course. I'll, huh…" He cleared his throat, his eyes still fixed on her. "I'll call you when it's ready."

 _This is bad_ , Saoirse told herself as she walked away, even as radiant warmth spread throughout her entire body, battling the pit of anguish in her stomach. It reminded her of standing at the edge of a cliff, gazing into the dark sea below. The grip of fear mingling with the intoxicating rush of the dive and the pull of the ocean. Now, there were no waves battering the bluffs, just a boy who made her heart swell in a way that she didn't dare to name.

Her younger self never hesitated more than a few seconds before her feet left the ground. And although Saoirse had grown into a different person, she knew it was only a matter of time before she leapt.

++++++

Alistair had miscalculated. He thought Kolgrim was getting worn out, that he'd injured the man's arm badly enough to make him drop his axe. He hadn't. And instead of striking Alistair's raised shield, Kolgrim had surged, making him lose his footing. He fell and hit the ground hard, his back against the cavern's wall. And as he looked up again, Kolgrim had raised his weapon over his head, about to bring it down with all his considerable might and split his skull in two. An executioner's move. Alistair had but a split second to shift to the left, panicked reflexes kicking in before the axe cut through the air, then through his splintmail, then through his right shoulder.

The world turned bright white, and the world crawled to a halt as Alistair watched how deep the axe had cut before getting stuck, the metal jutting out inches below his right collarbone. _It caught in my breastbone_ , he figured, as if he was a casual spectator, not the owner of said breastbone. He thought of how Sten had chastised him for not wearing a stronger armor, not two days before. It was odd that he couldn't feel anything. He'd been hurt before. But never like this.

Kolgrim's face loomed closer, his features distorted by rage as he started to pull at his weapon, and an explosion of pain shook Alistair, radiating from his shattered clavicle. Alistair could feel the axe dragging on his bones, tearing his flesh, and nausea rose through him. He grunted, raising his hands to push him away — when had he dropped his weapon? — and clawed at him, but the man held fast. "I am her Chosen," Kolgrim growled as he set his foot on Alistair's chest. "I will protect Her." The fanatic pulled again, and the axe moved, inch by inch, as Alistair struggled under him. Blood followed the weapon, pouring out in its wake, the metallic smell invading his senses as his strength ebbed out of him. With a horrible squelch, the blade came out of his torso, and a new wave of pain left Alistair gasping. _Move_ , he implored his body, but it didn't, and he could only watch in horror as Kolgrim raised his axe once more. Slumped against the wall, Alistair shut his eyes, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they'd shatter, bracing for an impact he knew he wouldn't survive.

The final blow didn't come. A faint bark, a crackle of magic, a cry in Qunari, all growing muffled, echoed around the cave. Something hitting the floor. Then he felt a cool, gentle hand stroking his cheek. Saoirse. He fought to open his eyes, and there she was, kneeling in front of him, her other hand hovering over his wound. She was muttering under her breath, too low for him to hear, and he'd never seen her look so scared, her tousled hair a dark halo around her beautiful, terror-stricken face. _This isn't so bad_ , he thought, if she was to be the last thing he saw before he died. He only wished he could have seen her smile instead.

A flare of magic and Alistair winced as he felt his flesh knit itself back together — a sensation he could never get used to, no matter how many times he got healed. The magic ran all the way down his wound, from his shoulder to the center of his chest. He'd almost been cleft in two, he realized. The kind of injury you don't survive without a mage. Saoirse's focused gaze didn't move from the cut as she healed him, but her hand on his cheek trembled. Saying anything would be a struggle, but he had to reassure her.

"Is it just me, or did I do really badly back there?" He managed to mumble.

Her head shot up, and she let out a choked sob when she saw him conscious, her eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Maker —" she leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek, once, twice, his eyelids fluttering shut at the touch. "I thought I'd lost you."

++++++

He was still thinking about that moment as they made their way down the mountains, following the road back to Redcliffe. The scar he now bore ached as he walked the steep mountain path, yet he couldn't help but smile. They had survived the temple, found the ashes, narrowly escaped a fight with a dragon, and the afternoon sun shone bright on the Frostbacks, the sky a deep blue. Even Zevran had shed most of his heavy scarves; Winter was drawing to a close, at last. The mood was high within the group: perhaps their mission wasn't as hopeless as they feared after all. But Alistair's mind was elsewhere. All he could picture was Saoirse's face, when she healed him, her despair, then her relief. He seemed to think about little else but her, these days.

Alistair had known how he felt about her for a while. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he fell for her — it had happened like the most natural thing in the world, as if it was always meant to. Like he had loved her before they even met. Only after Denerim had he dared to admit as much. As they traveled East through Ferelden, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, he found himself unable to ignore the truth any longer. One evening, Alistair had watched her, sitting by his side at the fire, her eyes closed as she listened to Leliana's music and stroked her dog's ears, and a thought came to him, unbidden but ineluctable: " _Here is the love of my life_." There wasn't much certainty in his life, but this, he knew.

At first, he had refused even to consider the possibility that she might love him back. Their relationship was special, but Saoirse seemed forever out of his reach — a kind, intelligent, capable, quick-witted woman who also happened to be strikingly beautiful. While he was, well, Alistair. But he'd seen how she blushed when he gave her the rose, the way she smiled all through dinner afterward, and he allowed himself to hope. And her face when she saved him in the cavern told him more than he'd dared to imagine.

Alistair had wanted to wait for the perfect moment to tell her how he felt, but his fight with Kolgrim was a harsh reminder that he might not have the time for patience. None of them did. So as he found himself slowing down, lingering on the side of the path as Zevran, Sten, and the others passed him by, a deep sense of calm washed over him. Crocuses were poking out of thin snow patches on the slopes, evergreen trees swaying in the wind. _Now is as perfect a moment as any._

Saoirse emerged on the path a minute later, the last in line, and he could have looked at her like this forever: bathed in sunlight, deep in thought, her cheeks pink with the cold air.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw him, then gave him a fond smile, and his pulse jumped. "Were you waiting for me?"

"I was. I just wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away."

Alistair hesitated, unsure where to start. "So, all this time we've spent together… you know, the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us… will you miss it once it's over?"

"It makes me tear up thinking about it. The thought of being able to get proper rest — the stuff of nightmares."

"There'll be no more running for our lives. No more darkspawn." He groaned. "And no more camping in the middle of nowhere."

Saoirse laughed, and he took a step closer to her, his words spilling out of him. "I know it might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long, but I've come to… care for you. A great deal."

Her eyes widened, her laughter cut short, and she stood very still as he continued. "I think maybe it's because we've gone through so much together, I don't know. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe I'm fooling myself."

There was something in her expression he couldn't read, but looked like disbelief, and he felt suddenly cold.

"Am I? Fooling myself? Or do you — "

Before he could finish his sentence, she had crossed the distance between them and pulled him to her, her hands bunching in the front of his cloak. He didn't have time to blink before she drew his lips to hers.

 _This is really happening_ , he realized as he kissed her back, her mouth even softer than he'd dreamed. Something unclenched in his chest as he closed his eyes, raising a hand to cup her cheek, the other sliding around her waist. Alistair had kissed other girls before — a farmer's daughter in Redcliffe, a Templar trainee a few years older than him, but he had never felt like this, dizzy, melting under her touch.

When she pulled away despite his reluctant huff, it took him a few seconds before he could open his eyes. When he did, Saoirse was staring at him, as astounded by what she just did as he had been. Then she let out a burst of laughter, her cheeks burning bright red, and he grinned back at her.

"So I fooled you, did I? Good to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference for Alistair's new scar here, by donc-desole on tumblr: https://donc-desole.tumblr.com/post/115754645219/so-i-sorta-made-a-ref-sheet-for-myself-to-help


	17. Chapter 17

**9:41 Dragon**

There was no breeze. The galleon stood still, somewhere off the southern Nevarran coast, its occupants left to meander around until the weather changed — and it would soon, the captain had assured. Meanwhile, passengers basked in the sun on the deck, trying to keep out of the crew's way. Saoirse had found a spot behind a large crate near the quarter deck. There, she let the sunshine warm her skin, blessedly out of sight. Another traveler, a Fereldan noblewoman, kept trying to strike conversations with her. The lady wasn't unpleasant, just terribly dull, and keeping her shapeshifting spell up was tiring enough without making chitchat. The disguise wasn't drastic — a simple change of hair and brows, dark to blonde, and eye color, grey to brown, enough to make her hard to recognize — but it left her drained. More so than when Saoirse changed into a different creature. She didn't quite understand why, but she suspected becoming an animal made her mind less clogged with human concerns. _I could use that right now,_ she thought, staring at the waves below. Her mind kept drifting back from worry to worry, from Clarel to Corypheus to her team to Leliana. And it always went back to Alistair.

As if the Maker had read her mind and felt like testing her, Saoirse heard the clacking of a dog's claws on the deck, followed by footsteps. Finn found her hiding spot first, Alistair behind him. He had shed his cloak as she had, wearing his green doublet, and she only briefly took note of his broad shoulders, of the sunlight gilding his hair. The two of them posed as mere traveling companions, business partners, but deep down, she wished he'd pretended they were a couple again. Any excuse to be closer to him. They had talked a bit since they left the Free Marches, ever so casually. Neither of them acknowledged what happened at the inn a few nights prior, but the memory lived in her mind, urgent, vivid.

"Lady Carlysle was looking for you, you know. Should I call her over? I'm sure there's something about barley pricing she hasn't told you yet," he said, leaning against the handrail next to her as Finn settled at her feet for another nap.

"If you want to see me jump overboard, then by all means, go ahead."

He laughed. "I wouldn't count on that. She was just telling me she's a rather accomplished swimmer."

"Wonderful." Turning towards him, Saoirse caught Alistair staring at her, her heartbeat skipping. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no. It's just… odd, seeing you like this, with the..." Alistair gestured at his face.

"I know. It's even odder to see it in the mirror, believe me."

"And you're sure you won't be recognized like this?"

She shrugged. "Few people actually know what I look like. I haven't shown my face in public a lot, and from a distance, a few changes are enough."

"Do you feel different?"

"No, not with such small modifications. It does give me a bit of a headache, though, keeping it up for so long. A small price to pay, all considered, but I'll have to do more than that once we get closer to the Wardens."

He frowned. "I hadn't realized you were uncomfortable. Do you — oh." Alistair rummaged through his knapsack until he found a small glass jar. "Here. I keep forgetting to return this."

Saoirse took the balm from him, putting it back inside her belt pouch. "Your shoulder doesn't hurt, then?"

"Not at all. It's pretty potent stuff. What's in it?"

"I'm not quite sure. Velanna makes it herself, and she doesn't have a ton of patience for teaching."

"Does she have patience for anything?"

"At times. She just gets annoyed when her routine is disrupted."

"I'll take your word for it." He considered her for a moment, his eyes finding the scar on her forehead, a souvenir from Amaranthine. "You use it often, then? The balm."

"I suppose so. Why?"

"I, ah… I recognized the scent on you the other day."

Saoirse almost winced, her embarrassment creeping — he had to be talking about their encounter in the hallway. "Right. Well, my leg never healed properly after the Deep Roads. I'm not that good a healer, and I couldn't feel it after shapeshifting, so I left it alone too long. It still smarts from time to time."

"Sorry to hear that. I had no idea — are you alright?"

"I am, don't worry. It gets worse if I'm on horseback too often, but I can manage."

"I'm sure you can." Alistair's eyes flickered across the scars on her face, then down to the one marring her left wrist, as if taking inventory of her past injuries. Feeling vaguely self-conscious, Saoirse stared at the horizon. A decade ago, her skin had been almost pristine. Not anymore.

"You know, the Avvar had a saying: _every_ _wound will get worse in the dark._ It was partly about getting sunshine on an injury to help it heal, of course, but it was also about… well, sharing how you felt. My neighbor had a bad back, back at Fennec-Tooth Hold, and he never missed an occasion to tell me about it. Said he always felt better afterwards."

She looked back at him, doubtful, but Alistair's face was earnest. "Did he really?"

"I can't be sure, but it couldn't hurt, right? I whined about my shoulder a bit, and lo and behold, the pain stopped."

"Right. Nothing to do with the ointment, I'm sure."

"Don't tell Velanna I doubted her talents, if you don't mind. I'd prefer not to be turned into a frog." His grin faltering, Alistair hesitated, then reached for her wrist, his touch on her scar feather-light. She stood very still, her skin tingling under his fingers. "What I mean is, we've been traveling together for over two months, and you've never said anything. If you're in pain, it couldn't hurt to talk about it, right? The Avvar might have the right idea here."

Looking down at the pale, faded burn mark under his hand, a memory flashed in her mind. The top of Fort Drakon in smoldering ruins. Acrid smoke filling her lungs. Loghain's cold grey eyes staring back at her. Her jaw clenched as old feelings rose inside of her, rage, sorrow, regrets. Forcing a small smile, Saoirse shook her head. "I might try it sometimes. But this one doesn't hurt anymore, thankfully."

His brow creasing, Alistair tilted his head — he didn't quite believe her, she knew — then pulled his hand away. She instantly missed his touch. "Alright. Just… don't hesitate, alright? If you're stuck with me, might as well take advantage of it. I'm a great listener. Or so Lady Carlysle said."

Saoirse laughed. "Oh, if _she_ said so, then that changes everything. I should go consult her fountain of knowledge at once."

"When I left, she was educating that poor Rivaini on the virtues of cold-water swimming; you shouldn't interrupt her. Besides, it's nice out there, isn't it?" He said, leaning forward on the handrail, squinting at the horizon.

She nodded, stealing a glance at him. The wind was picking up, mussing his hair, and they were so close she could see the new freckles he'd acquired at sea, peppering the tanned skin on his face, his arms. Saoirse felt her cheeks warm up and looked away, her lips curling despite herself. Alistair couldn't be hers again, she knew, but the fact that they could stay by each other's side, like this, that could be enough. It was plenty, in fact, considering how their first meeting went, back in Weisshaupt. Comfortable silence was more than she could have hoped for back then.

Another memory crept in, much older: her childhood best friend Rhea and her, perched on their favorite tree — an old jagged oak, perfect for climbing — on a mild Molioris day, babbling the hours away. They must have been seven years old at most, before Saoirse knew what being a mage meant. Rhea had been describing her plans for the future, as she often did, an ever-shifting set of ideas. That Spring, she'd wanted to become the best baker in the land, so good that prince Cailan would seek her out to make her his bride, instead of picking a noble-born fiancee. Because why would you, if your wife could make the best pies in Thedas? After mapping out her master plan, Rhea had turned to Saoirse. "What about you, then? Have you thought about it?"

"I have." Turning to her friend's round, pink face, Saoirse had said, with the confidence little girls sometimes pull out of the ether: "I'm going to be a pirate queen. I'll have a huge boat, with many sails, and a crew of dogs to help around. At least a dozen. Or two dozens."

Rhea pursed her lips. "Mmh. But what will the dogs eat?"

"Fish. I gave some to my grandma's puppy, and he loved it."

"Oh, good idea." She mused some more. "But what about your husband?"

"Do I _have_ to have one?"

"I think you do. All the best stories end with a wedding of sorts."

Saoirse huffed. "Fine, fine. Then… a kind boy, I guess. Not too dumb. Strong, so he can carry the dogs when they're tired. With golden hair," she added with a blush, thinking of the miller's son, whose blond hair caught her eye every time she saw him at school.

And here she was, twenty-four years later or so, on a many-sailed boat she didn't own, with a single one dog and a kind, golden-haired boy she couldn't have. If the Maker had been listening, back then, He had a wicked sense of humor.

++++++

A soft knock at the door. For a second, Alistair tensed, but Finn waged his stubby tail, dancing in place — it had to be Saoirse. He has come back earlier than her, the parlor shared between their two bedrooms empty and cold save for the mabari, and sat down by the fireplace to read. Saoirse had lent him " _A History Not of Heroes"_ the previous night.

He startled a bit when she came in: since their arrival in Jader, five days earlier, she hadn't stepped foot outside their rooms without shapeshifting. Her new disguise was drastic. Not-Saoirse had frizzy flaxen hair, a round, upturned nose, a softer jaw, thin lips, and arched brows. Her eyes stayed the same, but she was entirely unrecognizable. _I'll never get used to it,_ he thought as she dropped her spell, feeling something like relief when her face returned to normal.

"Anything?"

She took out two envelopes from her bag. "Letters from Leliana and Hawke. Nothing else." Plopping down on the chair next to him, she sighed. "And as far as intel goes, same as we've heard so far: Tevinterians sighted in the West and on the Coast. But nothing tangible. What about you?"

"Same goes for the Wardens. Rumors of them disappearing South, but nothing we didn't already know. Still no clue as to where they're gathering exactly."

Saoirse sighed as she opened one of the letters. "Well, let's hope the rest of the team has had more success than we did." She hadn't said as much, but Alistair knew how worried she was for Velanna, Edmond, and Sigrun. Much of her time in Jader, since they arrived and realized her companions weren't there, had been spent pacing and peering out the window.

"I'm sure they'll be here soon."

"Hmm. You did say that yesterday. And the day before," she mumbled, biting her thumbnail.

"And I'll keep saying it until they get here. It's bound to be true at some point." He bent down to pet Finn, who had sprawled on the rug at their feet. "The innkeeper and I had a chat when I came back, by the way."

"Jerrik? What did he want?"

"Just to tell me once again how honored he is to have us stay here. And shake my hand. A whole lot." Alistair glanced at Saoirse — she was focused on her letter, a slight frown on her brow. "Not to look a gift warm welcome in the mouth, but do you really trust him?"

"I do. Jerrik fawns a bit too much for his own good, but his heart's in the right place. Besides, it's Felsi's inn before it's his, and she would never act against us."

"Wait, I know that name. Oghren's girl, right?"

Saoirse looked up from her letter, disconcerted. "His… Oh. I didn't tell you." Her frown deepened. "She's his widow. Oghren died at the siege of Vigil's Keep."

Slowly, she told him of what happened nine years earlier: Oghren's joining the Wardens, how he traveled with her in the North before the Mother struck, how he fell defending the Keep. There was a long silence after she finished — Alistair realized that he had barely thought of the dwarf for all these years. And now, images of Oghren surged, of him perpetually drunk or hungover, reeking of booze. One night, at the camp, Alistair had found him outside of his tent, passed out in his own urine, and he'd thought _How could anyone let themselves go like this?_

He'd heard the same sentence spat at him years later, from a city guard who found him covered in vomit behind the Hanged Man. A wave of shame and disgust slammed into him, and he had to get up from his chair, walking to the window to get some air.

"So he died a hero, huh. Didn't know that little bag of booze had it in him," he said, trying to keep his tone even, but even he could hear the contempt in his own voice. "At least he made himself useful in the end."

On the street, the people of Jader carried on with their day, many heading to the nearest tavern. His stomach in knots, Alistair could picture himself doing the same, bleary-eyed and haggard, night after night. It had been six years since he last drank himself into a stupor, but it felt like far less.

A pause. "Why are you saying this?"

"I mean… I'm not wrong, am I?" He let out an uneasy, bitter chuckle. " _Oghren the hero._ He can't be an embarrassment from beyond the grave, thank the Maker."

"Do you think it's it fair to judge a man's worth based on the worst years of his life, then?"

Alistair started — he hadn't heard her get up and walk over. Saoirse stood next to him, her expression grave in the late afternoon light. He thought she was angry at first, but there was sadness in her eyes. It was a thousand times worse.

"I know you only knew Oghren in _that_ state, but that's not all he was. And he was not an embarrassment." She shook her head, a few strands escaping from her braid. "We met him at his lowest point. Oghren felt like he had no place left in the world at all; that's why he chose to leave Orzammar, to come out in a word he didn't know at all. He never said much about it, but he was so terribly sad, all the time. And in the end, he never got a chance to learn to live with himself."

Alistair watched her in silence, transfixed, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

"Whatever his last years were like, Oghren still gave his life to save others — his sacrifice is not worth less because of the way he lived. Or at least it shouldn't be. It would break his heart to know his weaknesses are all he's remembered for." Her brows drew together. "I can only hope I'm not remembered for my worst when I pass."

"But you wouldn't become like him, though, would you? You would never let yourself go like that."

"I'm not so sure. But I've made enough mistakes to —"

From his spot on the carpet, Finn raised his heart sharply, letting out a sound between a bark and a growl. Alistair and Saoirse froze as the Mabari padded over to the door, sniffing the air. At last, his tail started wagging, and the Wardens released a breath at the same time. A knock came a few moments later.

"All clear?" Saoirse called out.

"Clear as the Divine's arse," a gruff voice answered. The door opened to reveal Edmond, a grey hood pulled over his head. Before he could say more, Saoirse enveloped him in a hug, her arms barely circling his massive frame. The warrior returned the embrace with a rueful smile, patting her on the back. The open affection between them took Alistair by surprise: neither Saoirse nor Edmond was the demonstrative type. It was nice to see them let their guard down like this, Alistair thought, although he felt a twinge of annoyance he couldn't quite explain.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," Edmond mumbled. "But I can't stay long."

"Have you been spotted?" Alistair asked as Saoirse stepped back. The Orlesian's beard had grown bushier, as had his hair, but he seemed otherwise unchanged.

"Sig thought we might have been, so we had to split for now. We've been tailing a Tevinter envoy for a bit, Macrinus. He serves a Magister who's been in contact with Clarel, that much we know, but we haven't been able to identify him."

Saoirse handed him a cup of water, which he gulped down in a second. "What's Macrinus doing in Jaider?"

"Getting supplies. He's leaving tomorrow, with a few others. Going way out West."

"To Tirashan?"

"He's getting warm weather gear. Western Approach is more likely."

"What would he be doing in the desert? There's nothing out there," Alistair said.

"Not necessarily," Saoirse said, chewing on her bottom lip. "There are a few abandoned structures in that area, most of them untouched. Temples, fortresses, the like. If they're linked to Wardens, Adamant might interest them, but I can't see why. That place is a ruin in the middle of nowhere."

As succinctly as she could, she told Edmond of what they found in the Vimmark Mountains. The warrior's face had darkened by the time she finished telling him about Corypheus. "So that… _thing_ is working for Tevinter, then," he said.

"Or they're working for him. But if they were erasing all traces of him at the prison…"

"Either they're interested in the ruins themselves, or Adamant might be part of their next step," Saoirse said as Edmond sat on the floor next to Finn, letting the dog lick all over his face.

"Any ideas what they could be up to out there?" Alistair said.

"About a thousand. None of them make much sense. Any idea where Clarel is?"

"She's— ack, Finn, not on the mouth — she's somewhere South, near Emprise du Lion. We heard she was instructing stragglers to regroup in Chateau d'Ambroise, near Maubeth."

Alistair turned to Saoirse. "Then... that's where I should head out, isn't it? Time to face the music," he said, the words sticking in his throat.

She shot him a puzzled look. "You're not going by yourself. I know you're capable of handling yourself, but you'll need someone there if you need assistance, and to watch the situation from the outside," she said, and Alistair felt a knot of tension release at once from his shoulders. He knew they would have to part eventually, as only he could infiltrate the Orlesian Wardens, but when the anguish that hit him when the moment came took him by surprise.

"I should go," Edmond said, wiping Finn's drool off his face. "I'll lose the others if I dally."

"Wait — " Saoirse ran to the desk and scribbled down a few lines on a piece of paper. "For Sig and Vela. Write to me when you know where Macrinus is heading, alright? One letter to Maubeth, one to Haven, and one to Crestwood, just in case."

"Why would we be in Ferelden?" Alistair asked.

"If we need to retreat, cutting through the Frostbacks is our best option to stay unseen. Going West would mean crossing the Dales, and I'll take the mountains over a battlefield. So Haven, then Crestwood is in case things go poorly. We should avoid Warden's Keep, or any association with the Fereldan order, as long as we can."

"Will do. Take care of Finn. And, huh, of yourselves," Edmond muttered, making Saoirse laugh; she patted his shoulder with a smile. Over his shoulder, he exchanged a glance and a nod with Alistair, then he was gone, his footsteps surprisingly silent in the hallway.

For a long while, Saoirse stared at the closed door, her face drawn, all traces of the smile she wore for Edmond gone.

"They'll be fine," Alistair said, although there was little he could say that would reassure her. Besides, he had finally identified the feeling that nagged him when she hugged Edmond: envy. From the moment they reunited, he'd seen Saoirse embrace Sigrun, Velanna, Hawke, and now Edmond. Yet she seldom ever touched him. He knew why, of course, yet the pangs of jealousy remained. Because while his memories had faded with time, he had never forgotten how Saoirse had felt, all these years ago, her body nestled against him, warm and pliant. Her long legs wrapped around his waist. The shape of her hips, her breasts under his hands. The impossible softness of her skin.

Alistair had done his best not to think of it, with decreasing success. If he were to acknowledge his desire or, worse, act on it — as he almost had a week before — it would make their already complicated situation far more so. But when she turned towards him, her eyes full of worry, it took all his will not to cross the distance between them and fold her in his arms.

******

The Calling rustled in Saoirse's ears as she woke up, sore and cranky. It had plagued her nights as Alistair and her traveled towards Maubeth, leaving her tossing and turning in her tent. She was glad that Alistair remained unaffected by the whispers, but as she exited her tent and saw him, radiant and well-rested, playing with Finn in the clearing next to their camp, she found herself grouchier still.

Sitting by the fire, she rubbed her eyes and poured some porridge in a bowl, perusing their map as she ate. They weren't far from Chateau d'Ambroise, two or three days of travel away at most. A few places around the fort might offer her hidden shelter. That morning, the air was warm enough for early Spring, but the weeks ahead were bound to be cold, and sleeping outside would be far from ideal. She hoped their time in the South would be short. With some luck, Alistair would find out enough intel quickly, then slip away unnoticed. With even more luck, so would the rest of her team out West. Then, they could finally report to the First Warden, who would… _Who would do what,_ she mused, picking at a fingernail. Officially rebuke Clarel? Send out the brunt of the Wardens to Orlais? And then what?

"Slept well?" Alistair asked as he came up to the fire, with Finn at his heels. He was wearing a short-sleeved light tunic, and her eyes fell on his tan, brawny arms.

"I can't say that I did, no."

"Really?" He said with a grin, eyeing her hair, which she now realized had to look like a tangled mess. "I couldn't tell."

Saoirse pushed an errant strand away from her face. " _This_ is why I need Velanna around. I cannot do a proper braid for the life of me. Perhaps I should just cut it all off, save me the trouble."

"Or you could take advantage of the expert braider you're traveling with."

"Finn doesn't have the dexterity. But he… Huh. Do you mean you?"

"Oh, you know, it's just one of my many, many talents." Alistair shrugged, his smile widening. "What, don't you trust me?"

"I… I had no idea. Would you really do it?" She'd done her best to keep some distance between the two of them, lest she embarrassed herself again, but this seemed innocent enough.

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it. I'm a very serious man, as you well know. Let me just get a comb."

As he sat behind her and lifted her hair from the nape of her neck, she felt far too hot for that mild Spring morning. _Innocent enough — you absolute dolt._ Saoirse swallowed hard, thanking the Maker Alistair couldn't see her face.

He let out a low whistle as he undid what was left of her plait. "Well. This is going to take a while."

"You're the one who volunteered. Have you changed your mind?"

" _Never,_ Commander. I'm always up for a challenge."

Alistair hummed as he started untangling her hair, his gestures clearly practiced.

"When did you learn to do this, then?"

"With the Avvar. They had a pretty interesting relation with hair, in general. Half of the tribe shaved most of it; the others let it grow to their ankles."

"Oh. Did you do this for your wife, then?" She asked, keeping her voice neutral. The idea made her uneasy — what he was doing already felt too intimate for her to handle, but picturing him doing so with another woman was somehow worse.

He stopped moving for a second, then she heard him chuckle. "No. Keelah was one of the short-haired ones. She thought it more practical. But we had a few Druffalos, you see. One of them had the longest, softest hair you've ever seen, and if you want your favorite Druffalo to win a prize for the Midwinter festival, you better learn how to braid."

"Wait, really?"

"Really. The more intricate, the more points you score. I got third place in my second year."

"How does my hair compare with your favorite druffalo's, then?" Saoirse asked, her lips curving up, the scene she pictured in her head absurdly cute.

"You know, you're much better behaved than Meatball was."

She laughed out loud. " _Meatball_?"

"Well, his real name was Heftah, but Meatball suited him better. The Avvar love to give grand names to their animals out of respect. I could never get used to that particular tradition."

Saoirse's breath hitched — he had started braiding in earnest, pulling at her hair, clearly unaware that she had developed a taste for it in bed over the years.

"Sorry, am I hurting you?"

"No, no. You can keep going. I've been meaning to ask, how did you end up in an Avvar village, of all places?"

"I've asked myself the same question many, many times. Let's see… It's a long story, but the gist of it is that I foiled a kidnapping attempt by accident, and the tribe invited me to stay as a reward," Alistair said, his deft fingers working through her tresses. "I was traveling around the Frostback basin, and one night, two men just stumbled upon my camp. Quite literally. One of them bumped into my tent in the dark as I tried to sleep. When I came out, they attacked me right away — I think they probably panicked. I took one out defending myself, wounded the other, who ran back into the woods. And when I thought the night couldn't get weirded, the bag they were carrying started to _move._ "

"What was in it?"

"A rather rude little child. The son of Thane Rohennah, in fact. When I removed the gag, the first thing that came out of his mouth was, " _take me back to my mother or I'll kill you."_ Bold words from a five-year-old, but the poor kid was scared out of his wits. So I brought him back to Fennec-Tooth Hold."

"His parents must have been quite relieved."

"Sure, once they dropped their weapons and let me explain the situation. An outside clan had been trying to start a war between their Hold and another village. To sow chaos in the area. The kidnapping was meant to pour oil on that fire."

"So by defending yourself, you ended up saving a child and averting a war," Saoirse mused. "A rather productive night, all in all."

"Indeed. And when the chieftain realized I had no particular place to go, Rohennah invited me to join the tribe. I met Keelah not long after, and, well..."

"Do you miss it? Living in the village." Alistair pulled at her hair again, harder, the tug sending a jolt all the way down to her lower abdomen. She bit her lip, trying not to arch her back in response. _Fuck._

"Sometimes. It was a nice life for a while. But I never really fit in, and after Keelah and I separated, I knew it was time for me to leave."

"Their culture is a fascinating one. I've read much about the Avvar — you're lucky to have been allowed to live amongst them, even if it was temporary."

"We could go back together once this is all over. I could show you around."

His hands froze mid-motion as they both realized what he had just said, as if he had forgotten who he was talking to until just now. The weight of their past bore down on them again, and Saoirse felt her shoulders droop. There was no escaping what she had done. Not until she was ready to tell him everything and to lose him once more.

She sat in silence as he finished working, watching the clouds drift across blue skies. _You shouldn't be so nice to me_ , she wanted to tell him, but she knew she never would. Because deep down, she didn't want him to stop. And she knew she was too far gone for it to matter.

"All done," Alistair said, and his fingers lingered on her neck for the briefest time as he finished readjusting the braid. Saoirse raised a hand to feel the final result — her hair was intricately woven but not uncomfortable, without a hair out of place. Looking at him over her shoulder, she smiled.

"Thank you, Alistair."

He gave her a terse nod, his expression oddly blank. "Anytime. Shall we get a move on, then?"

Before she could answer, he was walking to his tent. After a beat, she got up and followed suit. They had work to do.

++++++

"Oh, _please_. You're only saying that it wasn't drowned in cheese."

"That's slander! I wouldn't have liked it regardless. Although I might have appreciated it more if it wasn't burned."

"It wasn't burned! It's normal for these mushrooms to be this crispy. You don't --" Saoirse stopped in her tracks. Ahead of them on the dirt path, Finn had frozen as well, his nose up high.

Alistair looked around them; the forest was quiet, but Chateau d'Ambroise was close. Scouts could be nearby. A shimmer of magic behind him — by the time he turned around, Saoirse had been replaced by her frizzy-haired blonde form. Finn ran back to them, rolling around three times at their feet. _Three strangers ahead._

They stood still for a long moment before a voice rang out in the trees.

"Who goes there?" The voice said, with a strong Orlesian accent.

"My name's Alistair, Ser. I'm looking for Chateau d'Ambroise."

Three silhouettes emerged from the brush. A stocky, middle-aged human stepped forward while her two companions, two hooded young men, stayed back, their hands on their bows.

"And why would you be looking for the Chateau, friend?" The woman's face was friendly but guarded. When she put her hands on her hips, her cape shifted to reveal her silver and blue uniform.

"I'm a Grey Warden," Alistair took a step closer, his hands up. The taint was so faint in their kind that they wouldn't be able to sense it at this distance. "I had to cross over from Ferelden — I've been told us Southerners are supposed to gather here, awaiting further orders."

"Who told you that?"

"Warden Garcin," he said, as Saoirse had told him to. Garcin was a Fereldan Warden with Orlesian roots, and he had disappeared in the Deep Roads after the Calling had started, presumed dead. Impossible for Clarel's folks to investigate. "Has he arrived yet? He left before me."

"Not sure. There's a lot of us here. You have your oath?"

Alistair took out his Warden's Oath from his knapsack, the stone dulled by time but unmistakable. The woman's face instantly relaxed at the sight.

"Good. Who's your little friend, back there?"

"My name is my business," Not-Saoirse said with a perfect Denerim accent. "I'm a guide. He hired me to get him to d'Ambroise. Seems like I've done my job well enough."

"That you did. You will go no further, however. The territory ahead is for Wardens only."

Not-Saoirse shrugged. "Whatever. I'll leave as soon as he pays."

"Heard that one before," one of the younger Wardens guffawed as Alistair walked back to Saoirse with what he hoped looked like nonchalance. She had crossed her arms with an annoyed expression, as if she were impatient to leave. But as he stepped closer to her, he saw the tension in her shoulders, the anguish clouding her features.

"Thank you for your help," he managed to say, his heart in his throat, and held out a few gold pieces. Not-Saoirse took the money, but her hand stayed in his, lingering for a few seconds. The dread swelling inside of him waned at the touch. They exchanged a look, steel-colored eyes staring at him from a stranger's face.

"Til we meet again, then," she whispered, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go. Swallowing hard, Alistair petted a somewhat confused Finn, then walked back to the Wardens.

"Glad to have you with us, Alistair," the woman said. "I'm Alinor, and those two are Beric and Mathias." The two other Wardens greeted him with slight bows.

"Pleased to meet you both," Alistair said as they set off on the path. Glancing back, he saw Saoirse still standing behind, watching them leave. _Don't run back to her_ , he repeated in his head, over and over again.

When he looked again, mere seconds later, she was gone.


End file.
